


Ill-Gotten Goods

by Taa (ValidJack)



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Erotica, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Solitary Confinement, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 49,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3077231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValidJack/pseuds/Taa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sokka is captured by the Fire Nation, tortured, repeatedly raped, and later rescued. Some heterosexual non-con and violence with Azula; strong homosexual non-con, rape, and violence with Ozai. Set during the series finale, prior to and including Sozin's Comet. (The story begins between the episodes "The Southern Raiders" and "The Ember Island Players".) First chapter fairly mild, later chapters more explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Replacement Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first real fanfiction I ever decided to write, and after all this time, it's still in progress, omg. But it was a tremendous step in my personal growth, and I keep learning SO MUCH from writing it, so I have no regrets. :) Thank you for your support.
> 
> Except, OK, one regret: I'm not a very fast writer. So making people wait for me really sucks, but I hope you can bear with me. I'd hoped I'd be able to mimic a regular update schedule by posting here, but NOPE. Lol, what is time. orz
> 
> But whatever, so I can't keep a speedy update schedule. I'm just gonna write at my own pace and post the best story I can. Thank you for letting me be me.
> 
> <3,  
> Taa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka is captured by Azula and put in solitary confinement.

_This is incredibly ironic,_ Sokka thought grimly as he was thrown into a prison cell. It was only days ago that he'd rescued his dad and Suki from a Fire Nation prison, and now he'd become a prisoner himself. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees, hissing as the cut he'd gotten earlier scraped against the dirt. He would have tried to catch himself, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. Instead, he just rolled onto his side to relieve the pain. As he lay there, the Fire Nation soldiers who'd captured him slammed the barred door closed, and the ringing of metal sent a shiver through the back of his neck. He shuddered through it and rolled over to face forward.

As the soldiers locked his cell, Sokka glared at them, but as soon as they were gone, he was scanning the ceiling for signs of Suki. Hopefully she was still aboveground. If she had any sense at all, she'd leave him behind, go back to the others, and move the group away from here before a search party of Fire Nation soldiers could discover their camp site. There were too many soldiers down here for her to take on herself. If she wanted to rescue him, she should come back with reinforcements.

Thankfully, nothing indicated that Suki had tried to follow him. The mouth of the tunnel he had fallen through was just an empty hole in the cavern wall, and the only people he saw roaming around were fully-armored Fire Nation soldiers. If Suki had come in after him, there would have been a commotion similar to the scuffle Sokka had caused, but since the atmosphere in the cave had returned to relative calm, he doubted Suki was inside. Good.

Sokka climbed to his feet, limping slightly from the gash in his knee. It had been torn open by the tunnel, and now blood was soaking through his pant leg. He scowled and pressed his face against the bars.

With Suki safe, he could try to analyze the situation. He and Suki had been on a walk together when they came across a cave in the hillside. Sokka had stepped in to explore it a bit and was surprised to smell brimstone in the air. He was even more surprised when the rock floor suddenly gave way beneath him and sent him tumbling through a jagged metal hole and into a crowd of Fire Nation soldiers fifteen feet below. Judging by the look of things, this cavern was some kind of secret Fire Nation bunker. He could only now get a good look at it since, when he'd first arrived, he had been too preoccupied trying to fend off a gang attack.

Looking back, he was ashamed of the pathetic fight he'd put up, but with the shock of the fall, the gash in his leg, and the general bumping and bruising he'd gotten from his method of entry, he'd been understandably a bit uncoordinated. The soldiers had easily overpowered him and quickly clapped him in chains. They'd also robbed him of his boomerang and sword.

Sokka angrily kicked the bars of his cell. Just then, a soldier barked a command at him.

"Stand back, there!"

Sokka looked up just in time to see a whip of flame heading his way.

"Whoa!" he yelped, retreating to the back wall. The flames licked the bars of his cell, and when they cleared, an officer was standing there, leering in at him.

"You're one of the Avatar's friends," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," Sokka retorted. "A bit far from home, aren't you?"

The officer ignored him. "Tell us where the others are, and we'll spare your life."

"Yeah, right," Sokka said. He hesitated a moment. "I don't know where they are, anyway. I haven't seen them lately."

The officer looked unimpressed. "Come now. If _one_ of you is hanging around, the rest can't be far behind."

"Yeah, you'd think so," Sokka countered skillfully, "but not this time. I got separated from them a while back. I've been looking for them, too; so if you find them, let me know." He tried to act nonchalant, to make his lie convincing.

"Hm," the officer said. He turned to a soldier at his side. "See if you can confirm his story. Take a few men and sweep the area. If youfind anyone, send word back, and we'll mount an attack." The soldier nodded and went away.

"You're wasting your time," Sokka warned. "Think about it. Why would any of us _voluntarily_ wander off alone? If we did," he added with emphasis, "we might be _captured_ by the _Fire Nation_." He slumped moodily to the floor. "As you can see."

The officer snorted dismissively and left.

Alone, Sokka glanced around his cell, looking for any chinks or structural weaknesses that could be exploited. Unfortunately, the place seemed airtight—not that he had predicted differently. So instead, he directed his attention to the soldiers milling about before him. He watched for indications of hierarchy and routines, thinking that his escape may have to rely on scheduled trickery rather than invisible sneakery, but as he watched, all he detected was a general air of undirected energy. The soldiers seemed to be simply killing time. This puzzled him. Why would the Fire Nation be stationed in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do?

He thought about this for a while but had come to no conclusion by the time the search party returned. They'd found no one. Sokka breathed a sigh of relief, proudly satisfied with Suki. She must have warned the others and gotten them to safety, just as he'd hoped.

"All right, then," the officer spoke again, calling to the group. "Let's clear out!"

"What?" Sokka asked out loud. "We're _leaving_?" Well, that would explain the lack of activity; but it would also complicate any potential rescue attempts.

A few minutes later, a pair of guards manhandled Sokka into the brig of an airship. It turned out the underground bunker had an outlet to a nearby cliff face, making the Fire Nation's departure quick and clean. As the ships sailed off toward the horizon, Sokka crouched alone in the darkness, desperately trying to wring his wrists out of his shackles. Apparently, if he was going to get out of this mess, he would have to do it on his own.

A few hours later, Sokka was aching all over and getting depressed. The space he was being kept in was cramped and cold—nothing but a few-foot-deep recess under the airship sub-deck—and he hadn't made any progress toward escape. He'd worn holes into his gloves by trying to loose the shackles, and if he kept at it, he would soon be rubbing his skin clean off. He might have considered breaking his thumb to squeeze through had that not meant he'd have to make the rest of his escape with only one useful hand. Dire as his situation was, he wasn't quite ready to resort to drastic measures yet. Besides, he must have been a thousand or more feet in the air. He'd be better off waiting until they reached solid land again.

By the time the airship finally touched down, Sokka was miserably numb, having been unable to move freely or find a comfortable position the whole time they'd been travelling. He was also in quite a bitter mood. He promised himself that the next Fire Nation soldier he saw he would kick in the face. He never got his opportunity though, because when the guards came at last to retrieve him, he was immediately blinded by sunlight after having spent so long in the dark, and when they yanked him out onto the cargo ramp, he couldn't even stand. The guards had to haul him down to ground level as Sokka struggled to make his tingling legs move.

The first thing that happened when he'd gotten his senses back was that he was made to change into a prisoner's tunic and trousers. All of his own clothing was confiscated; the only things he retained were his wolf tail and his pride. After that, he was led into a holding cell and left to mingle with a handful of other prisoners.

Being back with a group of people lifted his spirits a bit because escape plans, he knew, were more easily executed by teams. With this thought in mind, he stifled a grin as the Fire Nation soldiers locked the bars behind him. He wasn't exactly ready to formulate a strategy yet—not that he could say much, anyway, in the presence of the surrounding guards—but he _did_ make a point of chatting up a couple Earthbenders in preparation. He found out from them that this was a Fire Nation military base stationed in the Earth Kingdom. These prisoners had been taken after the fall of Ba Sing Se, and Sokka was the only non-Earth Kingdom prisoner they knew of.

He was unable to learn much more, though, because not long after being dropped off, a pair of soldiers returned to retrieve him again.

"You. Water Tribe boy," one of them called. "You're coming with us."

The other soldier was showing a document to one of the guards. "Princess Azula commands that all members of the Avatar's party be brought to her chambers directly," he said.

Sokka's heart dropped. Azula commanded this base? There was something very unsettling about that thought. He and the others had been too long on the wrong end of her manipulative attacks, and lately that situation had developed in him a bitter and personal hatred of her. He was sick of Azula destroying his plans and sick of watching her hurt innocent people. Their past few encounters had only deepened their animosity, and Sokka wondered if she might not have a score to settle with him.

A bad thought struck him: as a warrior, he'd face her any day—but as a _prisoner_? That made his stomach turn. Being in Azula's presence—surrounded by her guards, under her control, unarmed and unable to fight—seemed potentially very dangerous, especially considering how serious the war had gotten recently. He didn't like where this was going.

He fought against the knot in his stomach as the guards forced him into a new pair of cuffs. He tried to keep a level head; despite his well-placed apprehension, he knew there was nothing he could do in this situation. He would just have to suck it up and not let Azula see even a flicker of weakness in him. He would get through this meeting and then turn his attention back to escaping.

The guards led him to a windowless interrogation room in a basement wing. But instead of sitting him down to wait for Azula, one guard surprised him by grabbing him by the wrists and unlocking the handcuffs they'd just put him in. Sokka was understandably taken aback, but he quickly realized what was going on: the guards planned to re-shackle him to another pair of handcuffs which were suspended mid-room at waist level from the ceiling.

His stomach dropped. Being handcuffed in Azula's presence was terrifying enough; being handcuffed _in place_ was unthinkable. With a sharp feeling of dread overtaking him, he made a sudden, opportunist change of plan and beat back the guard who'd just loosed his hands, making a mad, slightly panicked, dash for the door.

He'd barely reached the threshold, though, when the other guard tackled him, bringing them both crashing to the floor. Sokka fought for his life, twisting and punching the guard to break free, but the first guard had recovered himself and joined in as well, landing a few punches on Sokka in an attempt to help his comrade. But still Sokka fought, and when he proved too unruly for even _both_ guards to handle, two more guards were called in to help get him under control.

Each guard took one of his limbs, and Sokka angrily shouted profanities at them as he was hefted into the air. With a little effort, they managed to get both his wrists restrained before him and locked securely into the irons. Soundly defeated, Sokka gave up his fight and struggled only half-heartedly to wring himself free. Then the thing happened which he'd been dreading most: the guards worked a pulley which lifted his cuffs higher toward the ceiling until his arms were fully extended above him and he was only barely able to support his weight on the floor. Left in this horribly vulnerable position, he could do nothing but watch as the guards left him behind and filed brusquely out of the room.

The slamming of the door cleared the room of all sound until the only things that broke the silence were the crackling torches on either side of the door and his own pulse, drumming in his throat. He took some deep breaths, trying to still his heart, cursing himself for getting so worked up over a sloppy escape attempt that was destined to fail. He had to calm down before Azula arrived; it wouldn't look good if he was still in a panic.

He was starting to get his head back by the time Her Majesty opened the door. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to grant her even the decency of turning his head her direction. Azula seemed amused. She serenely returned his gaze as she made her way to a single chair at the other end of the room.

" _Sokka_ ," she said, taking a seat and crossing her legs. "How nice to see you again." Sokka just glared from between his biceps. "You have impeccable timing, you know. My soldiers tell me they hadn't been in the cavern bunker more than twenty minutes before you dropped in." She couldn't quite contain the grin that crept out onto her lips. "Imagine. Had you happened by just five or ten minutes later, you and I wouldn't be chatting right now. Funny how fate works, isn't it?"

"What's with the cavern, anyway?" Sokka asked bluntly. "Getting scared and hiding underground or what?"

"Ha. Hardly," Azula said. "I'm just collecting a few documents and such I've left scattered here and there. Bending scrolls, uniforms, maps, that sort of thing. Nothing much, really, but one never knows what may prove important later on." She brushed a stray bit of hair behind her ear, looking annoyed. "I find I have to be more careful with who I entrust things to these days. My ranks have recently become infested with _traitors_ , and I wouldn't want my things falling into the wrong hands." She said this with a scowl directly pointedly at him.

Sokka knew she was referring to the two girls who'd used to accompany her. He'd seen at the Boiling Rock how they'd turned against Azula, letting Sokka and Zuko escape with the others. Clearly their betrayal still weighed heavy on her mind. But knowing how cool and collected Azula liked to appear, it troubled him somehow that she would so freely offer up that information to him now.

Azula rose and approached him. Sokka narrowed his eyes.

"Of course, I don't need to tell _you_ about that," she went on. "You've already gotten a good deal out of my _brother's_ treachery. That was some stunt you pulled at the Boiling Rock." She stopped just in front him, staring him down. "I know it was you who did the masterminding, of course, because Zuzu simply doesn't have the backbone or the cunning to organize a break-out." She glanced him over derisively. "Impressive, actually, for a peasant who can't even bend." Then she smiled. "You must be so _proud_ of yourself."

Sokka clenched his fists but said nothing.

Azula paused. "I suppose it was all for the benefit of that Kyoshi girl, hm? You just had to prove to yourself that you could play the hero like she'd hoped."

Sokka flushed uncomfortably. Actually, he'd only gone to the Boiling Rock to rescue his father, but now that he thought about it, why _hadn't_ he tried to rescue Suki first? Azula had even _told_ him she was relying on Sokka to save her. He was suddenly stricken with guilt. What a callous jerk he was.

"Well," Azula went on, seeming a bit annoyed at Sokka's continued silence, "since you managed to get _her_ , I suppose I'll just have to take _you_. It's not really a fair trade, mind you, since she was a skilled warrior and you're just a nobody, but I guess I'll have to make due. What do you think? Can you make up for her, Sokka?"

Oh, he _hated_ when she said his name. Furious, he lifted himself from the ground and kicked her away from him. Azula stumbled back, looking sincerely surprised. Apparently she wasn't used to prisoners fighting back.

"Why, you disrespectful leech!" she balked. She threw a fireball at him, striking him squarely in the chest so hard it was as if he'd been clubbed. He'd cried out in alarm, but as the ball struck, the wind was knocked out of him, pitching him forward in a stunned kind of pain. He coughed breathlessly and felt his heart skip a few beats. The force of the blow had caused more damage than the flames had, but it was a blessing for which he was only partly grateful.

"I do not tolerate insolence," Azula hissed. "You are my captive now, and you will show me respect."

"Sorry," Sokka grunted, able to breathe again, "but my respect for the Fire Nation is running a little low lately."

"Is it? Then I'm sure I can restore some for you."

"Unlikely," he snorted.

"Oh, _Sokka_ ," she cackled. "I'm surprised you would underestimate me. I was actually beginning to think you might have some brains in that low-born skull of yours. But I see now that I was mistaken." She sneeringly formed a fire dagger in her hand. "I have methods, you know. If there's one thing in this world I'm good at, it's earning respect."

She thrust the edge of the dagger up under Sokka's chin. He shrank back, startled, pulling away from the heat. Azula's face was twisted in anger.

"You seem to forget," she growled at him, "that you're here to repay a debt to me." Sokka craned his neck nervously, taking in breath as Azula pressed the fire to his throat.

He hadn't realized that she was capable of exerting this much control over her firebending. The dagger felt as sharp and solid as a steel blade, and even though it was searingly hot, it wasn't actually burning him. He turned his eyes forward and met a ferocious gaze.

"You robbed me of one or two particularly valuable prisoners," she said, "so unfortunately, you have a lot to make up for." She drew the knife down and pressed the tip into the pocket of his collar bone. Sokka held his breath, waiting. "But perhaps you don't quite understand the inconvenience of having things taken from you. Please, allow me to _educate_ you."

She moved the dagger down, but rather than cutting him or plunging it into his neck, she carefully inserted it into his shirtfront and began slowly burning a cut down the middle of his tunic.

Sokka blinked and pulled back suddenly, taken by surprise. What was she doing? He tried to get away, but Azula conjured a fireball in her free hand as a warning to cooperate. Sokka took the hint but couldn't stifle his dread as, bit by bit, the split down his shirt grew longer and wider. The singed edges of the fabric fell against his skin and stung him with the embers.

With the knife descending past his belly button, he felt himself break into a cold sweat, sick at the thought of being exposed to Azula. She was watching her work with a sort of scientific fascination, carefully studying each new bit of abdomen revealed by the parting cloth. Burning through the last few inches, she put her pinky against his stomach to steady her hand.

Sokka recoiled. "Stop," he said dumbly, but Azula had already retracted the dagger. She looked up at him smiling, bent so low that her face was level with his waist. He looked back down at her, his heart pounding faster. With a glint of mischief in her eye, Azula pushed herself up by her knees and lifted a hand to encourage the embers to bloom into flames. Sokka gasped, watching helplessly as the flames spread up his chest and licked around his sides until the entire tunic was engulfed.

He cried out, panic overtaking him. He had vowed not to lose his composure, but the irrepressible fear of being on fire overpowered his bodily control. He flailed, trying to disentangle himself from the flames. The heat was intense, but Azula bent the fire away from his skin, preventing him from being scalded. She continued like this, in calculated control, until the tunic literally disintegrated into ashes around him.

"What are you _doing_?" Sokka demanded, panting in the aftermath. Sweat trickled down his chest and steamed off his skin, which had turned red in the sauna-like heat.

"Feeling more respectful now?" Azula sneered. She held out her palm and produced a new flame. Sokka kicked at her again, but she calmly stepped out of reach.

"This will be easier if you hold still," she said, transferring the flame to the hem of his pants.

He didn't want to listen to her. He stamped on his ankle in an attempt to put it out, but the flames spread anyway, helped by Azula. By the time the fire was up to his knees, he'd discovered she was right. The more he fought, the more he got burned. In order to save himself from serious injury, he had no choice but to stay put.

He stood up rigid, trying not to react, but the crackling blaze climbing up his lower half was unbelievably difficult to ignore. He breathed deep, clenching his jaw and assuring himself he wasn't _actually_ on fire. He tried not to wince every time a spark singed him or a patch of leg hair burned away.

Then, suddenly, his feet seared with pain, and for a moment, he lost his composure: the leather soles of his slippers had begun to sizzle, but the fabric that kept them bound to his feet still had yet to burn through. In a panic, he stumbled over himself, swinging by his wrists as he kicked himself free. By the time he had done, Azula was chuckling quietly at his distress, and the flames of his trousers had moved up to his waist. He panted, trembling wide-eyed at his narrow escape, but the heat surrounding his hips quickly reclaimed his attention.

The fire was moving between his legs, and he tensed because he knew Azula wasn't going to stop. He shut his eyes and stood like stone, dreading each moment the flames burned nearer. Bits of fabric were falling away up the entire length of his legs, flames burning around the edges of ever-growing holes. But now most of the heat was concentrated at his crotch, the only part of his clothes still wholly intact. He waited and waited, hissing now from anxiety whenever an ember would burn into his skin. Time seemed to stretch on forever. Each moment made him sicker, made him ache more with shame.

Finally, the flames were on top of him, terrifying in their nearness despite Azula's bending. He could feel their tongues flickering through the spaces around his groin. He hated it. He was trembling.

When he felt the shield of fabric fall away from his pelvis, he couldn't suppress a tormented shudder. He was naked now, with only a few smoldering strands of fabric still clinging to his hips. But Azula made short work of them when, with a wave of her hand, any stray bits of cloth that hadn't yet surrendered his body exploded into flame and dispersed into the air. Sokka sucked in a breath as the smoke drifted around him. He felt sick to his stomach and uncontrollably afraid.

He stood helplessly before Azula, quivering as steam curled up from his naked body. He had never felt so exposed or humiliated. His skin stung, his eyes burned, and he glistened with sweat. He saw Azula standing there grinning at him, and he couldn't even tolerate keeping his eyes open anymore. He turned his head down, eyes shut against his embarrassment, and tried to block out the whole situation.

After a moment, Azula said innocently, "Oh. You're bleeding."

Sokka didn't know what she was talking about and didn't care to respond.

"I can fix that for you," she offered mischievously, and suddenly there was a screaming pain in his knee.

"Agh!" he shouted, jerking alive in agony. He caught a confused glimpse of a blurry orange glow and realized in horror that his knee was on fire! Sokka thrashed and screamed to put it out, and Azula ended it with a flick of her wrist.

"There," she said. "Cauterized." Sokka gasped and coughed. "You're welcome," she added.

Tears leaked from his eyes as his head hung on his chest. Azula had burned into his cut from the cavern, leaving his knee a raw, shining mess. It throbbed with a deep and piercing pain. Stunned and shaking, he turned his eyes up at her.

Had she treated _Suki_ like this when _she_ was in prison? God, he hoped with all his heart not. The thought made him furious and not least of all nauseous. If he ever found out Azula had tortured Suki, he would rip out her throat and never look back.

He scowled lividly, blinking angrily through his tears. Azula was standing there, arms folded, looking vaguely pleased with herself. Her head was cocked slightly to the side. Sokka grunted and spat, and she took a single step back. He watched her for a moment as he caught his breath.

There seemed to be something different about her. The way she stood was somehow looser; the expression in her eyes was just a shade distant. Sokka hadn't picked up on it until just now, but in a flash he realized: this was crazy, even for her.

He concluded then that, no, she _hadn't_ treated Suki like this, because if she had, Suki would have told him. He didn't know whether Kyoshi pride would make Suki normally want to keep something like that to herself, but he _did_ know that a change like this would have been too important to keep secret; knowing about it would have affected the way they strategized against Azula.

It was small comfort for Sokka, knowing Suki had been safe, but this other bit of information was another matter. Azula's behavior now was excessive and unpredictable, beyond what he might have considered military brutality. She seemed unstable and unreasonable, like she was coming unhinged.

He stared at the floor, wondering how worried he should be.

After a while, Azula sighed: "Well, I guess that's enough for today. Excellent lesson. Class dismissed." She turned and calmly left the room, snuffing out the torches as she closed the door.

Sokka shuddered unhappily, wishing his pain would die down, and hung from his chain limply as he waited alone in the darkness.


	2. Giving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka is tortured by Azula to the point of breaking.

How long had it been? Sokka was in pain. His arms burned, his neck ached, and his feet were tender from standing. Besides which, it was cold; and so dark, and so silent. All the light he had was the line of orange flickering under the door, and all the sound he had was of his own making. For lack of stimulation, he was becoming obsessed with the sounds of his own body: the faint whistle of his breath, the rushing pump of his pulse, and the low, quiet rumble of his periodic shivering. And every now and then he would shift his wrists in his cuffs, and the tinkling of the chain sounded like a ghost.

He tried to keep still, but there was no way to be comfortable. So, repeating what he'd already done countless times before, he stretched on his tiptoes, reaching and grabbing the chain that suspended him. Before, his goal had only been to take off the pressure of hanging from his wrists, but he couldn't achieve it anymore just by standing—his calves and the balls of his feet were too tired and painful to hold him up—so instead, he held onto the chain, supporting himself with his hands alone, giving both his wrists _and_ his feet a rest. But with how frequently he'd done this already and with how long his hands had been overhead, he could hardly even _move_ his arms anymore for the burning. So when he tried to give his hands his weight now, it was only seconds before he was shaking with effort. With a groan of defeat, he collapsed back into his shackles.

He let his toes drag the ground, swinging minutely from his chain. He'd stand up again in a minute, after he caught his breath. Until then, he let his head drop forward. Despite the cold and his shivering, he was actually sweating, fatigued by pain and strain and his inability to do anything about it.

He cursed Azula. Why was she putting him through this? He was unarmed— _naked_ —in the basement of a Fire Nation military base; he didn't have any bending abilities; he was _not_ a threat. And he was useless as an informant because there was nothing he could tell her that she didn't already know. If her goal was simply to keep him from escaping, she only had to give him a private cell, because at this point, he was hopeless without the aid of other prisoners. But keeping him chained like this was torture. This didn't make sense.

He felt frustrated and angry, near the edge of a breakdown. All of his hope was gradually dying away. At first, he'd actually thought someone might come for him, that once Azula had had her fun, the guards would come back, let him down, and return him to a cell. But as hours added to hours, he realized this situation was permanent. All he had to look forward to was this room, this chain, these cuffs, this cold, and this embarrassing mess at his feet.

But then, unexpectedly, there were footsteps in the hallway. Sokka lifted his head. He wasn't imagining things again; someone really was coming. And whoever it was wasn't alone; he could pick out two distinct pairs of feet. He stood up and watched the door, anxious about who it might be. A key was turned in the lock, and when the door opened, Sokka had to squint against the brightness of lantern light.

In stepped a pair of girls carrying buckets and cleaning supplies. Sokka blanched. Whatever he had expected, it hadn't been that. As soon as they saw him, he was overcome by a renewed sense of how pathetic and vulnerable he was. He could feel his nakedness under their gaze, could actually feel the warmth of the light falling on his bare skin. He faltered and looked away, reeling with humiliation.

The girls didn't say anything as they set down their supplies; they just lit the torches with a piece of flint and set to cleaning the room in silence. They swept up the charred remains of Sokka's clothes and mopped the mess around his feet. Sokka purposefully stared at the wall while they worked, wishing he could just disappear. But then one of the girls dipped a rag in her bucket and wrung it out over his shoulder, sending a cascade of cold water down his side.

Sokka gasped in surprise, and at the chill. He looked at the girl as she stepped up beside him, but she was pointedly not paying him any attention. She just reached overhead to scrub down one of his arms while the other girl stepped up to duplicate the process on his other side. Descending together in methodical silence, they proceeded to bathe him from top to bottom.

Sokka squirmed under their hands. The touch of two strangers moving simultaneously across his skin felt unbearably invasive, but there was really nothing he could do to stop them. For one, even to acknowledge the situation would be too humiliating, and for another, the girls were only innocent maids—he couldn't exactly fight them off. And compared to the treatment he'd gotten earlier, a sponge bath to remove some soot and grime could almost be considered a kindness. But even that was comfortless justification, because it didn't help him feel any less violated. In ways, this was worse than being stripped by Azula.

When they'd finally finished—having disregarded modesty but at least taken care not to aggravate his scorched knee—one of the girls mopped up the excess water from the floor while the other wrung out a rag to clean his face. Stoic as a statue, she pressed the cloth to his cheeks while Sokka stood waiting, rigid and sober. The careful way she wiped away the soot reminded him of how his mother might have wiped his face when he was little. His stomach turned at the thought, and when the girl pulled the cloth away, he felt infantile and debased. He averted his eyes as the girls collected their things, and when they put out the torches and left the room, he was actually glad to be alone again.

But as the darkness and silence settled back in, he started to feel even more miserable than before. Even regardless of his being wet, he thought the room was getting colder, which could only have meant that another day had ended. If that were true, then he'd already spent an entire day and a half in captivity, and most of it chained right here. He hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, and hadn't figured out a way to make the misery stop. He just _hurt_ , all over, this dull, persistent ache, and being unable to sit, or move, or even to drop his arms was driving him absolutely mad. He tried to relax and embrace the pain, but his body just twitched with discomfort. The only thing he could really do was clench his teeth to keep them from chattering and hope he wouldn't have to endure this much longer.

But a while later, another pair of footsteps came marching down the hall, and Sokka groaned in dread, having no question of who it was this time and no hope that her visit would end in his favor.

Azula opened the door and Sokka looked at her humorlessly. With a wave of her hand, she re-lit the torches, and Sokka closed his eyes to adjust to the light. The torches seemed to burn brighter when Azula lit them. When he looked again, his captor was standing there casually, one hand on the door knob, the other on her hip. She smiled at him mildly; he just stared unhappily back.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, but he didn't say anything. Azula closed the door behind her and took her seat at the front of the room, calmly folding her arms over her chest.

"I've been thinking about you all day," she said.

"Why?" he asked warily. Azula tilted her head at him.

"I've been looking forward to this."

Sokka frowned and shifted his weight, trying not to look like he was in too much pain.

Azula studied him. "What have you been thinking about?"

Sokka ignored her.

"Your friends, maybe?" she asked. "You care about them, don't you?"

She couldn't have actually expected him to answer these questions.

"Don't be shy. I know you do," she said. "I've seen you with them. You're a classic Water Tribesman—always looking out for your family, watching your friends' backs. It must be hard for you, being away from them." She paused. "Do you think it's hard for _them_?"

Sokka looked at her uneasily. Azula let the silence settle. She was watching him so closely it made his skin crawl. Did she know something he didn't? Were the others OK? Sokka clenched his jaw, the cold prick of worry creeping into his bones.

"Were you important to them?" she said.

Ah, no. So that was it. She didn't know anything about the others; this was just a game she was playing to try to get under his skin.

She purred at him, "Are they any worse off, now that you're gone?"

Her tone was like snow at midnight, soft and quiet but deadly cold. He knew her words were poison, but how could he help but hear them? And after they'd entered his skull, how could he help but think about them? He imagined the others packing up camp and flying away on Appa, saved from capture by Suki's warning. _Sokka_ was the idiot who'd fallen to the Fire Nation. The others had to run because _he'd_ screwed up. They could certainly manage without him; maybe they'd even be better off.

He cursed himself. He'd thought he'd gotten over this anxiety with Piandao, but now the old sense of worthlessness was finding its way back. As if it weren't enough that he couldn't bend like the others, it seemed he was also the most incompetent of the non-benders. After all, _Piandao_ and _Suki_ couldn't bend, but _they_ weren't chained up in a Fire Nation base.

He swallowed, twisting his wrists in his chain as a dull, aching sickness built up in his stomach.

Azula lifted her head. It was clear that she had gotten to him, and she seemed satisfied with the result. But rather than gloating, she went a step further and looked at him with such a pained and intense expression of pity that it almost could have been disgust.

The moment Sokka saw her, his heart stopped beating. It was like a hand had been thrust into his stomach and was trying to pull out his organs. The look on her face was the look his father had given him when he'd been told his mother was dead.

"So it's true," Azula said. "Even _you_ recognize your worthlessness." She shook her head, eyes glistening with mock sympathy. He wanted her to stop looking at him like that. This mingling of Azula and the memory of his parents made him feel disgusting.

Then she said, "I can hardly blame your father for abandoning you like he did."

And a bolt of ice went through his spine.

"What?" he said.

Knowing she had gained the upper hand, Azula allowed herself to smile.

"Are you surprised I know that about you? Don't be. The Fire Nation keeps detailed records of our military history. I spent last night doing a little research.

"It turns out, a few years ago, when The Southern Raiders went to the South Pole to exterminate the last Southern Water Bender, the woman who confessed to it was actually the chief's wife. That explains why all the men from the village set sail on a campaign against the Fire Nation immediately after her execution. Chief Hakoda must have wanted revenge. At very least, he needed to make up for the pathetic show of not resisting the Raiders in the first place.

"But this wasn't all that long ago. You should be able to remember it. The chief's wife was your _mother_ , after all."

Sokka stared in disbelief. She had no right to know this.

"What interests me most, though," she continued with pleasure, "is why _you_ didn't sail on the campaign with the others. Your _mother_ had just been murdered, and your father was leading the charge—you _must_ have wanted revenge as badly as he did."

Sokka glared at her, never blinking for fear that the water would spill from his eyes. Azula had hit the mark dead-on. He'd practically _begged_ his father to let him come along, regardless of whether he was old enough yet.

"You probably think your _age_ was the reason you were left behind," she said slyly. "According to custom, you were too young to be a warrior. But think about it, Sokka. In times of war, _every_ able boy should be allowed to be a soldier. Crisis outweighs tradition.

"So you know what that means? Your father didn't leave you behind because you were too young; he left you behind because you weren't fit to bring along." She raised an eyebrow, challenging him to deny it. "You were there when the Raiders arrived, weren't you? You could have done something to stop them. You had a duty, in fact, as the chief's only son. And yet you never mounted an attack. You stood by and let them walk right by you. _You_ let them kill your mother. You failed your family and your entire tribe. You're completely useless." She paused and looked him hard in the eye. "Maybe if you hadn't been such a disappointment, your father wouldn't have _abandoned_ you."

Sokka snorted at her conclusion, struggling to keep himself together. Every nerve in his body begged him to deny it, but his heart knew she was right. Everything he'd done had been a glorious failure, and now here he was, at the mercy of the enemy.

"But don't worry," she added. "There's still a bright side. By letting your mother die, the _actual_ Water Bender managed to stay hidden. Your darling sister. What was her name again?"

He would _not_ say it.

"Katara," she said.

"Stop talking," he croaked.

"Ooh," Azula cooed happily, walking right up to him. "I'm starting to get through to you. Do you see now how completely you've failed your people? I mean, look at you—" she pressed a finger into his bare stomach—"imagine who you're shaming right now, just by _being_ here."

He twitched at her touch, even as Suki's face appeared in his mind. If _she_ could see where he'd ended up... He was ashamed even at the idea of it. And what about his father? Or Katara, Aang, or Toph, even _Zuko_? All of them were still out there somewhere, fighting the fight he'd failed to put up.

Azula curled her finger, stroking his stomach as she pulled her hand away. She was so close, smiling contentedly and basking in his misery. Sokka felt so humiliated he didn't even want to look at her, let alone hang next to her, naked and spread-out like a slab of meat, red and uncomfortable with emotion. He felt so small and vulnerable, like nothing was safe from her. She had his weapons, his privacy, and now even his history.

As he turned his head away from her, feeling her breath waft against his chest, he realized she was winning the power game. He was the bug, and she was the boot. The thought made him shiver in sudden anger.

Then it hit him—he knew why Azula was trying so hard: she had a personal vendetta against him. Because _he_ had something _she_ didn't.

He looked at her with new recognition, hate bubbling up in his chest.

"You're just lonely," he accused. "Because all you've got is a giant army and no friends."

Azula's eyes widened in astonishment. She backed up and tried to recover, but the damage had already been done.

"So that's it," he confirmed. "It's not just that you can't take us down, even though you've been trying so hard. It's...you don't know what to do. I saw what happened at the Boiling Rock. Your girlfriends turned their backs on you to help us escape. And that's after even _Zuko_ joined our side. You're not as in control as you thought you were. Your resources are all falling away."

Azula was glaring at him now, trying in vain to conceal her embarrassment. He'd obviously struck a nerve. He was a bit surprised she'd taken it so hard, but pleased that he'd found a way to get back at her. Her eyes were angry but tinged with panic, as if he'd discovered her darkest secret.

And maybe he had.

With a vindictive scowl, he announced the beautiful thing he'd realized: "You're totally alone now."

In a sudden flash of rage, Azula leapt at him with fire. Sokka started back, panicked, but there was nothing he could do. She flung a fireball at his chest and, snarling, pressed it into him with her palm.

He screamed, agonized by the pain as his skin blistered and shriveled in the heat. Even after the flame dissipated, his skin screamed at the burn, and Azula lifted her hand to reveal the steaming red wound as wide as his fist. Tears rolled from his eyes from the sheer intensity of the pain.

Without giving him even a moment to recover, Azula grabbed him by the throat with one hand and held him tightly to hold his attention.

"Don't talk about things you don't know about, peasant," she hissed. "Look at where you are and then tell me who's alone. _This_ is where your _friendship_ has gotten you."

Sokka stared at her, red-eyed, hardly able to focus enough to understand what she was saying. He could smell the smoke rising off his chest. Azula sneered at him violently, her nails digging into his skin, then pushed him away and went to the door.

"Wait!" he pleaded, gasping in pain.

Azula stopped in the doorway and turned to look at him.

"At least let me down," he said, his spirit falling with each syllable. He couldn't stand to be left like this any longer. He would go insane.

But Azula only turned and extinguished the torches before slamming the door behind her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Late that night, Sokka awoke from a miserable and uneasy sleep. He was exhausted, hungry, frozen, and in pain. Hanging from his shackles, his legs limp below him, his hands had become swollen with blood and felt as if they were about to burst open, or as if they already had. The pain of it was incredible. It was a wonder he hadn't woken up sooner.

His eyes still closed, as if this provided him some kind of comfort, he groaned and whined as he lifted himself gingerly off the cuffs, sending sharp bursts of pain down his arms as he did so. He hadn't even been able to feel his fingers before, but as blood quickly rushed back out of them, they came alive with an unbearable prickling sensation, worse than if they'd fallen asleep. It was maddening and painful, and he clenched his hands over and over to try to make it stop.

Only then did he notice the faint, faint light playing on his eyelids. Confused, he peeled his eyes open and was disoriented to discover that the light came from a tiny point of pale blue. He peered blearily ahead and gradually made sense of the dark, pulsing mass in front of him. Then recognition dawned, and he froze, as if in terror, not sure what to make of it.

Azula sat there in her nightgown, her hair hanging loosely around her face, a single blue flame dancing on her fingertip. She was watching him from the shadows with dark, sultry eyes.

Sokka gaped, his heart suddenly pounding. Azula crinkled her nose as if annoyed that he'd woken, and without saying anything, snuffed out her flame.

He tensed.

The room was pitch black, a darkness as palpable and thick as ink. Even the torches of the hall had been extinguished for the night. Sokka tried to peer into the blackness, his eyes wide and searching, but there was nothing to see—only the swirling shadows of his own vision, the illusion of movement made by his body.

Azula got up: he could hear the scrape of the chair against the floor and the rustle of her skirts as she took a few steps. But after that, there was nothing at all. Absolute silence. He started to panic. His breath caught in his throat. He had a sudden, wild fear that she was behind him, about to pounce like an animal. Adrenaline pumped through his body and goosebumps prickled over his skin.

But then the door opened, and Azula lit a new light, looking back at him like a shadowy ghost, framed in black against a void of black. He looked at her, frightened like a cornered animal. She didn't move, just stood there and stared, stony and cold. Then she turned to the hallway and closed the door to his room, and Sokka watched the light under the door fade into nothingness as she walked away.

His heart was racing. Azula had been spying on him in his sleep. Fiercely on edge, he strained hard to listen and searched through the darkness until his head ached. Had she really gone, or was she waiting in the darkness, just outside his door, until the moment he was most vulnerable again? Were there others stationed in the corners of his room? Was someone watching him right now? Who or what was hiding silently in the darkness, and how long had they been there, and how close could they be?

He carried on like this long into the night, harassed by paranoia to the point of grief. He had never been afraid of the dark before, so why was he sweating and shaking now? He barely even dared to breathe anymore for fear that something would detect him and attack him.

But there was only the stillness and the silence and the dark. It was like he had gone deaf and blind. The world didn't exist anymore. The blackness had choked out reality.

The next thing he knew with any kind of certainty was that the light under the door had swelled back into brightness. He stood in his room like the risen dead, blinking at the door, hardly able to make sense. His mind was sluggish. His head lolled. It had been an agonizingly long, sleepless night.

When the servant girls returned with their buckets in hand, Sokka stared at them mutely through red, puffy eyes. He didn't care what they did to him anymore. He was so tired and weak. His only thought now was for the incredible discomfort ransacking every inch of his body.

The girls performed an abridged cleaning routine, mopping around his feet and wiping his face but leaving the rest of him mostly untouched. They dabbed at the angry burn on his chest with cold, wet rags, but he hummed in pain and they quickly stopped. He supposed they would leave then, their job done, but they surprised him with one small act of kindness.

One of the girls lifted a cup to his lips, supporting his head with her other hand and gently encouraging him to drink. The cup was filled with sweetened milk, and once Sokka realized this, he accepted it readily. He hadn't had a thing in two days, and he was ravenous with hunger and dehydration. He gulped and guzzled until the glass was empty and even resisted when the girl pulled it away. He panted and longed for another glass, but that was all the milk the girls had brought. Seeing his desperation, though, they dipped the cup into a bucket of clean water and allowed him to drink at least that much more. He panted again to convey his thanks, but they wouldn't let him drink again.

"You'll be sick," the girl said quietly as she wiped his mouth with the corner of her rag, shame-facedly avoiding eye contact. With nothing more to do or say, they collected their things and left the room.

Sokka hung in detached acceptance, wiped out by the blissful sensation of having something in his stomach again. He was too weak to fight his pain and too tired to think coherently, but it was amazing how so little could restore his spirit. After a few hours of stillness and rest, he felt able to reinvigorate himself in preparation for Azula's next visit.

He took a deep breath, stretching his lungs to their fullest capacity, exhilarated by the feeling of his ribs expanding. He lifted his head and pulled up his legs, shook out his arms and moved his fingers—anything to get his blood flowing and to remind himself he was still alive. He'd been chained, abused, burned, and neglected, but he hadn't been broken yet. There was still some spirit left in him, and he wanted to make the most of it. It didn't matter how long he'd be kept here; he vowed he would outlast Azula.

When evening came and the princess reappeared, Sokka stood tall and defiant, overpowering his aching body if only for a while, so that she could see she hadn't won.

But Azula was not in her usual lively mood. When she opened the door and lit the torches, she only frowned at him for a moment before sitting in her chair and folding her arms, looking at him like a difficult puzzle. She said nothing, but stared at him closely, for minutes on end, not even acknowledging that he was conscious of her presence. As her eyes trailed up and down his torso, he twitched and fidgeted, uncomfortable under such a long and intense gaze. He became anxious, wondering when she would make a move, and found it more and more difficult to maintain his bravado as his muscles got shaky and his stamina gave out.

More than once he noticed Azula stop to study the area below his waist, but despite his embarrassment, he gritted his teeth and focused on trying not to appear in pain. But as time dragged on and Azula's fascination deepened, his unease began to get the better of him.

Azula shifted in her chair and put a hand to her face, one finger on her eyebrow, the others brushing against her lips. Her eyes were fixed between Sokka's legs, lingering there longer than ever before. Sokka felt himself go red and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but Azula never looked away. When she started to chew the corner of her lip, Sokka flushed hot in embarrassment.

"Stop looking at me," he demanded self-consciously. Azula blinked and for the first time looked him in the eye. She sneered.

"Keep quiet." Her eyes stayed locked with his for a moment, then she suddenly diverted her gaze to the side. Something was on her mind.

She avoided looking at him for a while, instead took to rolling a fireball between her fingers. But with time, her eyes started to wander back to him, and eventually she became engrossed in another staring spell. The fire at her fingertips idly diffused, forgotten.

Sokka couldn't stand to play model for her peep show, but there was nothing he could do. He closed his eyes to at least spare him the sight of her piercing, hungry gaze. After waiting in misery for what seemed like an age, the silence was broken by a sudden rapid tapping sound, and Sokka opened his eyes to find Azula nervously bouncing her heel against the floor. One arm was crossed over her chest, her other elbow resting on it, propping up her chin and obscuring the lower part of her face with the heel of her hand. Her eyebrows were knit and worried. As soon as she became aware of Sokka's gaze, she re-crossed her legs and stopped her fidgeting.

He had never seen Azula so flustered. Her face had even gone a shade redder than before.

"Something's bothering you," he ventured, twisting his wrists to relieve some pain from the cuffs. Azula narrowed her eyes and looked him again in the face. He was tired of this, angry at her for tormenting him, and his desire for retaliation was growing irrationally strong. Seeing her like this filled him with malicious courage. "I know why you keep coming here," he said. " _Stress relief_. Things must not be going the way you want, so you take it out on me."

Azula scowled at him and lowered her hand, a sarcastic smile pulling on her mouth. "Oh, you don't know the half of it," she said.

Sokka's nostrils flared. "I told you. The war must be getting hard to fight with no allies left on your side."

She snapped.

"You," she spat, "are awfully chatty today." She whipped out her arm, and the torches flared up for a moment to triple their size. Startled, Sokka jumped aside, pulling on his cuffs.

"Are you _comfortable_ here?" Azula went on. "Is it _easy_ being my prisoner?" He looked at her as she stood up, suddenly sorry he'd tempted her. She raised her arm as if to backhand him, but at the height of her anger, she froze. Her eyes narrowed, and her expression grew cold and sinister. She stepped back and made a meaningful fist, looking Sokka in the eye. He waited anxiously, not knowing what she was planning, but when she opened her fist again, it was empty. A moment passed before Sokka felt the heat at his side.

Looking, he found a tiny blue flame—no bigger than the flame at the tip of a candle—flickering dangerously close, just below his armpit. He shrank back, but Azula drew the flame closer to his skin.

"No, don't!" Sokka said suddenly, too late, and of course with no effect. The heat intensified quickly, pricking at his skin, and he let out an "agh!" as he grit his teeth against the pain. But this was not a short, pointed burn. Azula kept the flame close, waiting until he blistered, then slowly drew the flame down, lengthening the burn along his side.

He tried not to cry out, but how could he resist? It would take a stronger man than he was not to give in to such torture. He shouted and moaned, not able to get away, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut he would have a headache after. This wasn't like the other times; this was careful, calculated torture. Azula wanted to see him writhe.

By the time Azula had progressed down to his waist, Sokka had forgotten any delusions of restraint. He was wailing now, going mad with pain, moaning and coughing like a dog in a trap.

"Stop!" he begged, over and over. "Stop! Stop! _Stop_! Please stop!" But Azula wasn't satisfied until she'd drawn a scorched, bubbling line right down to his hip.

When the fire diffused, Sokka collapsed in his chains, weeping and wheezing and mindlessly apologetic. Whatever he had done, he would never do it again. God, please, let him never do it again. He would do anything; just keep the fire away from him.

"You want to know the _real_ reason I keep coming down here?" Azula said. She walked right up to him and laid a hand on his head. "Just because it's _fun_."

Sokka wouldn't have responded even if he could. She couldn't be telling the truth. _No one_ was that ruthless. Not unless they were...unstable.

She pushed her fingernails through his hair, spreading her palm out like a spider. "You can gloat and theorize all you want, but the truth is, the Fire Nation is _winning_ , and I have nothing better to do."

She pushed his head away.

She was already opening the door to leave before Sokka collected himself enough to speak.

"What do you _want_?" he demanded shrilly, his voice tight and hoarse with pain. He tried to stand, but he was too shaky—whether with fatigue, fear, or fury he couldn't even tell. She hadn't asked him a single question, wasn't treating him at all like prisoner of war. He'd been down here two days, and not a moment of it made sense.

Azula stopped in the doorway and shifted her weight uncomfortably. Sokka's head was spinning, his whole body going numb from trauma. She rubbed the back of her neck and looked for a moment like she wanted to stay, then thought better of it and stepped into the hallway, flustered and swinging the door closed as she went.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sokka couldn't remember anything after that. The next thing he knew, he was waking up slowly, as if stepping out of a fog. He opened his eyes and looked blearily ahead of him, confused as to why he wasn't able to see. But after a moment, he realized it was the darkness, and bit by bit he remembered where he was.

He stood up shakily but fell immediately over again, becoming as fluid and formless as water. He was very light-headed. The room was spinning. He swung for a moment, then settled into stillness, and with every breath he took, his brain functioned a little better. After a while, he'd regained his equilibrium, and he pulled himself to his feet more surely this time. His hands screamed out in horrifying pain, shivering down the rest of his body. He called out and squirmed, willing them to stop hurting, but the blood coursing down into his arms felt as if it had been poisoned. It was a while before he could deal with the pain enough to form thoughts again.

His first realization was that he hadn't fallen asleep; he'd passed out. He'd been struggling for days to fight off that impulse, but it seemed he'd finally given in. He felt a pang of failure and worry—he was at his limit; his body couldn't take this anymore. How much longer would it be until he was dead?

But then the rest of his body started to come out of its stupor as well, and he cringed again as pain spread through him. He'd never been in this much pain for this long before. It was making him insane. His hands hung uselessly from his wrists, throbbing and purple and measuring his pulse in little bursts of biting ice. His chest, meanwhile, felt as if he'd been put on the rack, stretched almost to snapping. The muscles slipping over his ribs objected to being returned to their neutral positions, too used to being pulled as he hanged from the ceiling. His stomach, on the other hand, was cramped and tender with constantly trying to support his weight. His feet and toes were so cold he could barley stand on them, and his newly burnt side poured hot pain into him like waves lapping the shore.

This was the worst situation he'd ever been in. There was no way he could stand, no position he could twist into, which didn't make him delirious with discomfort. The more he tried, the more frustrated he became, until he was wincing over the knot in his throat. This was a living nightmare! He just wanted it to be over.

Tears burned in his eyes as he realized he couldn't take any more. He wanted to go home. He wanted down. He didn't want to fight in the war anymore.

He tugged at his cuffs, grunting in anger and frustration, but his wrists stayed firmly locked in place. Furious and crying, he thrashed around, trying to free himself but not making any progress. He cried out obscenities—to the chains, to the walls—pulling and twisting until he wore himself out. He wept and sunk down on his knees, swearing in despair when a tear landed on his burned chest and made him jump with new pain. Shaking, he moaned and wiped his eyes on his shoulders.

He didn't want to hang here forever. He didn't want to die. He swallowed. He breathed. And his anger blossomed into a new thought:

 _Forget_ spending the rest of his life like this. He didn't want to spend another _second_ like this. He was through waiting and cooperating. He was not helpless. He was going to get out of these cuffs.

But pulling and tugging did him no good. He needed to think bigger. Looking up at the ceiling, he took a few deep breaths and crystallized his resolve. He would push himself out.

With a tremendous effort, he hefted his knees into the air, straining with all his might to lift his feet over his head. But he was too weak and tired. After a moment of shuddering, he collapsed back to the floor. Even after so little, he had to catch his breath. But he wasn't giving up. He was a trained warrior; pull-ups were child's play.

He heaved again, his muscles burning with effort, and made a little more progress before falling back down. He hurt so badly, his whole body pulsed, but as he kept fighting, he started to feel it less. He was getting high on pain. All the better for his escape.

This time he prepped like a runner on the starting line, pouring all his tension into his thighs, coiled like a spring about to jump. With a hearty thrust of determination and an angry grunt, he pushed himself forward, swinging his legs up, and heaved with all his remaining might his legs toward the ceiling.

"Aaagghh!" he grunted, face twisted with effort, and finally, after what felt like a never-ending struggle, his toe made contact with the rough stone of the ceiling. He clawed his way forward until he was hanging perfectly upside-down, squatting against the ceiling, feet planted firmly above his head, his wrists straining agonizingly against his cuffs. He panted and could already feel his hands slipping down into the shackles.

But it wasn't enough. Despite more than all the force of his weight pulling him toward the floor, his hands stopped their slow progress. He groaned and pushed gently against the ceiling, folding his thumbs as far as he could into the palms of his hands, but there was no movement. He was stuck.

Gasping through the pain and effort of holding himself in this position, he blinked away new tears and powered through a moment of hesitation. There was no turning back now; he was _not_ staying here. He muttered a frightened prayer of protection, closed his eyes, and shoved off from the ceiling.

It all happened in a second. Pain shot through both his wrists, he shouted, and his right thumb popped out of its socket. With a nauseating lurch, the hand slipped out of the cuff. This left all his weight and momentum to his remaining left hand. Sokka felt rather than heard the _snap_ as the bone under his pinky finger splintered and collapsed, allowing his left hand to fold and slip free as well. Electricity rushed down his arm, scrambling his senses, and he screamed in pain; but then he crashed against the floor, cracking his head against the concrete and getting the wind knocked cleanly out of him, silencing him.

He writhed on the floor, holding his hands to his chest. As soon as he caught his breath, he wanted to scream again, but instead clamped his teeth into one arm and willed himself to stay quiet. The last thing he needed was for someone to hear him now and cut his freedom short.

But the pain in his hands was immense, now coupled with a splitting headache. He dug his heels into the floor and rolled back and forth like a deranged animal, trying to cope with this psychotic, raging pain. Tears rolled off his face as freely as if someone had turned over a pail of water. He gasped and moaned. He was going to pass out.

As soon as he had the thought, he started to feel detached from the world, and a disembodied buzzing filled his ears. He thought he was in a room full of loudly talking people, and despite his lying on solid ground, he felt a pronounced sensation of falling. He could no longer hold his arms up; they fell pointlessly to his sides, and his head lolled back. Without really meaning to, he stopped moving, and the room disappeared; his pain slipped away, his awareness slipped away, and he fell into oblivion, dead to the world.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The first thing Sokka became aware of was the cold. He whimpered and felt around for his blanket, but when his hand made contact with the floor, he gasped in pain and jolted awake, feeling sick to his stomach. His head reeled, and it was a few seconds before he even realized he wasn't in camp, as he'd thought he'd been. He sat up, wincing at the pain in his burns, and remembered what had happened.

He sat there on the floor, cross-legged with his broken hands in his lap. He was weak, but he felt better than he had. He must have had been out for a few hours, at least. He was still sore and painful, but his head was less fuzzy. And better yet, he had his _arms_.

Sokka smiled grimly, looking down at his hands. He could barely make anything out in the darkness, but that wasn't the point. He was looking _down_ at his hands. He was sitting on the floor. He'd _beaten_ those fucking shackles. He almost felt like laughing, maybe crying.

He tried to move his fingers and found it was perfectly possible, but incredibly painful. His broken left hand radiated pain, swollen around the broken bone. His right hand, though, only hurt when he moved it, and if he could re-locate his thumb, it might stop hurting altogether.

He maneuvered himself so that his feet were drawn together in front of him, then pinched his dislocated thumb between his heels, bit his tongue, and yanked up on his arm. A burst of pain erupted into his palm as his thumb distanced from his hand, but the bone slid sideways, back into alignment, and when Sokka released his heels, the pain grew quieter. He experimentally made a fist and winced as his thumb jumped minutely back into place, restoring his hand to relative normal.

But his other hand was a different story. He prodded it gently, hoping to feel the break, but the merest touch shocked him with a pain so intense it made him jump away. His hand was useless, then. He would just have to try not to make it worse until he could get it set.

He looked toward the door, his one source of light—and his one chance at escape. He wondered what time of day it was. Who would be his next visitor, and how long would he be waiting for them?

He climbed to his feet and tested the lock, just to confirm that he really was trapped, then listened at the door for any signs of movement outside. He heard nothing, but if he stood long enough, he could imagine the faint crackle of the torches mounted on the other side of the wall.

He stepped away and sank back down to the floor. His spirit was refreshed, but his limbs felt like jelly. Exclusive of the physical strain of having been shackled so long, his body was running on empty. Even in their worst moments traversing the globe, he and the others had never gone so long without food or water. He was literally pushing the limits of what was even survivable.

All the more reason to get out now.

He sat and thought for a long time how he might manage his escape, but in his current condition, nothing seemed especially plausible. For one thing, he could barely move, and for another, he had nothing in the room to work with. ...Nothing except for Azula's chair. He looked at it, looming hazily in the darkness near the far wall. It wasn't much, but he would make it work. He dragged it over to the door and sat down, prepared to wait and grateful that he didn't have to suffer the cold concrete.

Now that he was free of the discomfort of hanging, he found it was much more difficult to stay awake, so over the next few hours, rather than risk losing the element of surprise by falling asleep at an inopportune moment, he kept his blood flowing by pacing the room every now and again. Finally, just as he was pondering getting up again, he heard the distinct approach of footsteps at the end of the hall.

His hair rose. A single pair of footsteps likely indicated Azula, but no matter who his guest was, he had _one_ chance to overtake them and make a break for it. He hurriedly and silently got to the floor, the chair standing between him and the exit, leaned back on his elbows, and braced his feet against the chair. The footsteps drew closer.

Sokka held his breath, fixated on the shadow that obscured his slit of light. A moment passed, then the door swung inward.

Azula didn't have time to notice anything was different as she stepped into the room before Sokka shoved the chair into her. He shouted with exhilaration; Azula shrieked in surprise. She stumbled, cursing, and fell to the floor. Sokka was up in a flash and dashed out the door, knocking the chair over as he went.

For a moment, he was disoriented. His vision fogged with light, and in his panic, he mistrusted which way it was to the exit. He faltered, squinted toward the stairs at the end of hallway, then leapt back into a run.

But Azula was quick, too, and at present, much healthier. Before Sokka had taken three steps, she caught up and tackled him to the ground.

"Aagh!" Sokka screeched, skinning his knees on the concrete and only barely resisting the urge to brace himself with his hands. As such, he hit the ground hard, bruising his ribs and elbows. He tried to recover, but Azula clapped a hand around his ankle, and then he was being dragged backward.

He kicked and twisted, not only in hopes of escape but also to protect his burned torso from the floor. Instead, his hip was scraped along the concrete as Azula pulled him backward into the room.

"Let go!" he screamed pointlessly, struggling to regain control, but Azula dropped onto his back, digging her knee into his spine.

"How did you get loose?!" she demanded. Sokka didn't answer except to cringe in pain and brace himself up on one elbow in an attempt to throw her off. Azula knocked him down again and pinned him on his stomach, leaning over him and grabbing both his wrists. Sokka yelped at the mistreatment of his hand, and Azula lit the torches with a toss of her head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sokka saw Azula glance up to the still-locked shackles hanging from the ceiling. Making the connection, she turned back to Sokka and adjusted her grip, leaning forward and pressing down onto the backs of his hands. Sokka's broken bone screamed, as did he, and he thrashed in agony.

"You slipped the cuffs!" Azula said, astonished. She let up, and Sokka gasped through his tears, drawing his hands toward him. Azula pressed his head into the floor as she pushed herself up, then Sokka rolled away from her, further into the room. She meant to deal a sharp kick to his stomach, but Sokka blocked her with his feet, and Azula retreated back into the hallway, slamming the door closed again. Gasping and panting, cradling his injured hand, Sokka could see her feet under the door. She hesitated a good half minute before hurrying away.

Sokka rolled onto his back, moaning at the slowly fading pain in his hand. His escape had been a remarkable failure. It was idiotic of him to even have tried. He was a dead man now. Now that Azula had seen the extent of his persistence, it might not be worth it to her to keep him alive.

After a few minutes, a collection of heavy footfalls came storming back down the hallway. Sokka rolled onto his knees, bracing his head against the floor. The guards were coming to deal with him, and he didn't want to look like he'd given up.

Not that there was anything he could have done, anyway. When the door opened, six soldiers poured into the room, and Sokka went pale just at the thought of being so horrendously overpowered. He barely had time to blink before a boot slammed down on his back, forcing him roughly to his stomach.

Sokka yelled as two more soldiers put their boots to the backs of his knees and the first sat on top of him, straddling his torso and pinning him down. A fourth soldier kneeled in front of him and yanked Sokka's arms forward, over his head.

Sokka screamed at them.

"Let me go, you bastards! Fucking Fire Nation cowards!"

There was absolutely nothing he could do, though. All he accomplished by struggling was tearing his burns against the floor. The soldier on his back was crushing the air out of him, but Sokka kept yelling and screaming until someone hit him in the face. After that he was silent, his fury fizzling out into dry and helpless anguish. The soldier at his front pressed Sokka's forearms together, elbows to wrists, so that the soldier on his back could bind them tightly in a wide leather strap. Sokka could no longer move more than to twitch his hands pointlessly at the sides. He laid his cheek against the floor and whined quietly in grief with every breath he took. Above him, someone muttered, "Let's see him slip _that_."

Throughout this, Sokka had become aware of a sharp, repetitive clanging coming from the other end of the room, but in his distress, he couldn't begin to imagine what it was. The soldiers near him attached a short chain at places near each of his elbows, and now, fully cuffed, Sokka was pulled to his knees to see at last what the clanging had been about.

The two remaining soldiers had pounded two metal stakes into the floor just below where his old cuffs still dangled. To each stake was attached a short length of chain, each of which ended in a thick leather cuff. Ankle restraints, Sokka realized, and he sagged backward into the legs of a guard, his cuffed and chained arms lying uselessly in his lap. Depression as heavy and dark as the universe weighed him down. The guard kneed him forward, and Sokka hunched over, sobbing weakly into his own knees.

"Please just let me go," he begged. "I can't give you anything. I'm useless. Please just let me go."

They ignored his pleas, hefting him up and dragging him over to the stakes. He didn't resist. When the guards set him down, he fell numbly onto his back and lay miserably still, staring blearily at the ceiling. He'd lost all his heart and energy. The guards strapped his ankles into the restraints and lowered the pulley so that his old cuffs crumpled into a heap on his stomach. Someone chained his new arm cuff to the pulley and lifted Sokka into the air like a freshly killed animal. Tears rolled silently off his face. When the guards brought him to standing height, he didn't bother to press his feet against the floor.

The guards then filed out into the hallway, and Azula's voice came drifting into the room: "Now get out of here. I want to be left in private."

Sokka looked to the door. Had Azula been there the whole time? If so, she'd heard him screaming and begging the guards to free him. He dropped his head and swallowed a sob that had rushed suddenly into his chest. He was so embarrassed and so ashamed. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

Once the guards were gone, Azula stepped into view. Her posture was all wrong, her demeanor changed. With her presence, the atmosphere of the room became secretive and dark. She closed the door quietly behind her and checked twice to be sure it was locked.

Sokka closed his eyes, breathing through his tears in the irrational hope that Azula wouldn't see him crying. He was so overwhelmed by pain and despair that he almost didn't notice Azula coming close to him. But, instinctively sensing he wasn't safe, he opened his eyes and found her staring animally at him, her hand hovering delicately near his face. He started, and Azula parted her lips, pressing her palm gently against his cheek. She smeared a tear from his eye with her thumb.

"Who would ever know?" she whispered to herself. Sokka tried to turn away, but she cupped his face in both her hands and made him look her in the eye. Her expression was ravenous and predatory. She was going to hurt him. A cold sweat swept over Sokka's body, and he drew in a breath and planted his feet on the floor.

With one hand, Azula reached up and untied Sokka's wolf tail. Buzzing filled Sokka's head, and he shut his eyes against a fresh flood of tears. His hair fell forward in thick dirty strands. His heart screamed in panic. Azula's fingers moved down to his neck and felt out the tiny hollow of his collarbone. "Don't," he begged. "Please don't." Her hands moved down to his chest. "Oh god, don't touch me. Please." His voice cracked.

Azula didn't acknowledge him. She delicately traced the edge of his burn, then circled his nipples. "Stop," Sokka mouthed, but his voice was gone. Azula pressed her fingertips into the soft flesh and caressed the little bumps that swelled up there. She hummed in interest.

Abandoning that, she bent her head close to him and blew softly onto his raw and bloodied chest. Goosebumps broke out over his skin. Azula stooped lower, bringing her hands to his hips, and lightly kissed his stomach. Sokka shuddered. He felt her tongue red hot on his skin, but when she pulled away, the wet streaks she left behind became cold as ice, like ghosts clinging to the places she'd touched.

Soon, Azula's hands found their way to his backside, and she was on her knees in front of him. Sokka whimpered at the thought of what might come next, but all she did was lay her cheek against his thigh. The crown of her head pressed gently against his groin. Moments passed, and Sokka felt sick to his stomach. Azula nudged his leg with her nose and explored with her hands the soft curves and texture of his behind.

She pulled away, lifting herself up by his hips, and stepped around behind him, trailing one hand along his stomach. Sokka whined as she pressed herself up against him, the thick panels of her uniform not masking the heat and shape of her body. Both her hands were now positioned low on his abdomen, and as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck, she slid her palms down and cupped his genitals.

Sokka choked.

Within moments, Azula had his penis in her hands, toying with it and massaging it between her fingers. She kneaded the soft, cool flesh like dough, and Sokka writhed against her, as if trying to escape. But there was absolutely nothing he could do. He cried and leaned his head back, pushing her face away, but she just tightened her grip on his crotch and wrapped one arm vice-like around his waist. Her breath was on his neck. He shivered.

He didn't want it but couldn't prevent it when his body started to respond. He flexed his legs and pulled at his ankle cuffs, and his penis swelled in Azula's fist. Delighted, she purred at him, "That's right," and adjusted her grip to stroke him.

"Stop," he said breathlessly, tears dripping from his chin. Azula pumped her fist and Sokka arched his back, panting. "No," he moaned. "Please. Just leave me alone."

Azula pushed her hips forward, pressing their bodies together, and leaned her cheek against the back of his neck. She was panting too, making tiny sounds of effort as she worked her hand faster over his erection.

Sokka twitched and strained against his restraints, and then, involuntarily, as if he'd been shocked with electricity, he bucked into her hand, his hips thrusting forward. Azula laughed in surprise and rubbed her thumb over the tip of his penis. Sokka gasped, twisting his head to the side. _Oh god_ , he thought, _oh god, oh god..._ Resisting her stimulation was impossible. He was horrified and humiliated, but his need for release was getting maddening. He moaned with inexpressible emotion and then found it too difficult to stop. His labored breathing and high, strained cries coupled the rhythm of Azula's beating fist.

After a while, Azula started to slow down, and the change of pace made Sokka more uncomfortable than ever. His breath caught in his throat, and he straightened his legs, his whole body tingling with unspent energy—but Azula was done. She stopped her pumping and gripped his erection hard in her fist, squeezing so violently she might as well have been strangling him, and Sokka cried out, curling forward in pain. She squeezed from his penis a drop of clear liquid and allowed it to pool between her fingers. Finally she let go, and Sokka gasped, his erection still standing off him, aching and unsatisfied. Azula lifted her hand and smeared his pre-come down his face. He turned away from her and sobbed, new tears simply disappearing into the already too-wet surfaces of his cheeks.

Azula unwrapped herself from around him and backed away, leaving Sokka isolated in his own world of distress. He wouldn't open his eyes and couldn't keep from crying. He was like a child left alone in bed and afraid of the dark. All he could do was tremble.

Azula made no sound and didn't touch him again. After some time, Sokka calmed himself enough to be able to look at the room again. Peeling open his eyes and peering through his tears, he could only make out the warped shape of Azula as she stepped out from behind him. He wiped his eyes on his shoulders, and she came clearer into view, pacing broodingly away from him. She was wiping her hand clean on the leg of her pants.

Sokka took deep, shaky breaths, watching her closely and blinking away new tears whenever they slowly welled up. Azula seemed more concerned now with analyzing her own part in the encounter than she did in handling Sokka anymore. She picked up the chair from where it lay by the door and agitatedly took a seat.

Sokka wriggled, trying to cope with the slowly fading hardness between his legs, and Azula silently kept rubbing her soiled hand against her knee.

He was so tired. He hung there uselessly, watching Azula with half-lidded eyes red and swollen with unspeakable rage. Azula meanwhile seemed to be wavering between anxiety and resignation. There was no remorse in her, only concern for what would come next, now that this boundary had been crossed. She pondered her dirty hand, closing it thoughtfully on her thigh, then seemed to come to a decision. "I can't keep doing this," she said.

She looked at Sokka, and he tried to look back. He had an overwhelming, frightened urge to look away from her, but he fought it long enough to catch the meaning in her eye: she needed to get rid of him. She needed to _dispose_ of him.

A cold rush of understanding poisoned his blood. He was never getting out of here. This was the last room he would ever see. Sokka widened his eyes, and Azula confirmed all his fears by setting her jaw and looking away. Sokka's throat tightened against a wave of fresh sobs, and he bit down tightly to keep them contained, scrunching his face up but not able to stop his tears.

"I should just kill you," Azula said, and Sokka choked to hear it out loud. Moments passed.

A clattering of wood on stone told him Azula had knocked the chair back to the ground, and when he looked up, she was conjuring lightning in one hand. His heart dropped into his stomach. He was going to be sick.

Now. She was going to kill him now. He'd faced death before, but never like this. He couldn't cope with this. This wasn't like dying in battle. This was... This was being kidnapped, raped, and murdered.

He thought of his family. He thought of his village. Being home, fishing, throwing snowballs, warming up by the fire. He remembered being a child, before his mother was dead, before they found the Avatar. He was shaking now, pale, sick, and scared. He was going to die now.

Azula raised her hand, and Sokka felt the electric tingle on his skin, even from this distance. The room glowed blue. Azula's hair floated ethereally away from her face. Sokka tensed and waited helplessly, the moment hanging in the air. He stopped breathing.

Azula stretched out her arm and released a blast which screamed right by him and exploded against the wall. Sokka cried out in torturous shock. Stone and dust sprayed from the wall, biting into his skin where it hit him. Azula shielded her eyes from the debris, and the room faded back into stillness.

Sokka retched, losing control of himself completely. His body convulsed, heaving bile up into his throat. There was nothing in his stomach to expel, but he was sick to the very core. Had he been free, he would have collapsed, shaking so violently that he couldn't stand. He wailed, sobbing loudly in the horrific aftermath, his body trying to cough up some poison that didn't exist.

Azula wasn't going to kill him, but she had destroyed him. She kicked the chair across the room then tore open the door and left in silence.

Sokka barely registered her going. He was hysterical, wracked with pain and fear and grief. He sobbed until his throat rattled and his head pounded, until his body just couldn't take any more.


	3. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka is released from Azula's prison only to find he's no better off in Ozai's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains intense non-consensual sex acts.

Sokka was done with. Horror and trauma had sucked from him the final dregs of his stamina, and now, wholly overtaken by a corrosive exhaustion, he fell heavy into unconsciousness. For hours and hours he hung from the ceiling of his cold, silent prison, sagging in his bonds as if dead, his arms folded and bound together above him, his ankles chained to the floor. His skin, naked and glistening with still-raw wounds, burned with fever, and his mind, sick with deliriousness, tormented him in his dreams.

He dreamt that he was screaming, thrashing psychotically against a suffocating darkness that engulfed his head and limbs like fog and held him down, exposed. Azula's hands moved over him, violating him, and through the rattling of his throat, he coughed up blood, thick and hot, dripping from his chin. The room around him was crumbling black charcoal, smoke and brimstone filling his lungs. He was choking, dying, becoming nothing but a convulsing body stretched out for someone else's use.

He cried in his dream, shivering under the unwelcome touch, when a sharp drop in his stomach jolted him awake, his blood racing with the panic of suddenly falling. Sokka blinked blindly, unable to comprehend what was happening, but perceived the sound of a clinking chain in the background as his body slowly collapsed to the floor. His knees hit stone, he dipped forward, his face sinking near the floor, and only then did he realize that he was being lowered by the pulley.

Before his face made contact with the ground, a large, rough hand pulled him back by the shoulder, and he was hefted back onto his knees. Being moved, having his arms lowered again to his stomach, sent pain washing through his sides. His muscles, too far stretched for too long, had forgotten where their proper places were on his body. Sokka whined at the pain, a sound so small and thin it could hardly be heard.

The hands that held him upright gripped him under his arms, digging into his tender muscle and hurting him, but Sokka couldn't move or object, too weak to properly interact with the world. His head rolled and hung forward as someone knelt before him and removed the leather cuff binding his forearms together.

 _Guards_ , Sokka hazily recognized.

Loosed, Sokka's arms fell free to his sides, and at the jostling of his left hand, he chirped in pain, stung sharply by the jarring of his broken bone. He tried to lift his head, but he barely had the strength. Every inch of him _hurt_ , so much, his whole body sore and aching with abuse, cold, and sickness. And as the first guard set the arm cuff aside and the second pulled Sokka closer against his legs, Sokka's skin crawled with disgust, repulsed by the idea of being handled and touched without the ability to resist.

The guard in front him stooped down and wrapped his arms around Sokka's torso, lifting him to his feet. Sokka winced as the burn on his chest tore against the guard's armor, but he could do nothing to alleviate the pain, his cheek merely sinking against the man's chest, limp in his arms, dead weight. At his feet, the other guard unstrapped his ankles from the restraints.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a third guard appeared, and together, the three men maneuvered Sokka into something loose and baggy, bending his arms into sleeves and draping long fabric over his shoulders and down to his knees. He was leaned back into the arms of the guard behind him, and the guard before him tied a belt at Sokka's waist before the word _robe_ came into his mind.

The guards laid him out on the floor on a stretcher, and one of them pulled his robe over him, to cover his nakedness. Next moment, Sokka was lifted away, bobbing out into the hall on the gentle current of their footsteps. His head reeled. The sensation of being carried felt surreally familiar, like lying in the bottom of a boat, and with this thought playing on his memory, he was lulled back into oblivion.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When next he awoke, he was so delirious he wasn't even aware of the position of his own body. Someone was pulling on his robe. There were hands at his waist, untying his belt, and at once Sokka's consciousness revved with anxiety. He tried to open his eyes, overcome with a sudden panic— _don't touch me!_ —and tried to lift his hands to stop them. But he was too weak to move, and within seconds, he felt his robe open.

Cool air rushed over him, making him aware that he was lying on his back, and tears came into his eyes. He whined, little more than a whistle of air. The person beside him put their hand on his forehead, talking to him gently, but he didn't know what they were saying. Around him, others took his limbs in their hands, bending his arms to get him out of his sleeves, pulling his robe out from under him, as if undressing a baby. He wanted to stop them but was powerless to protest, unable even to open his eyes, his head too heavy to lift from the pillow, tears seeping from under his eyelashes.

In the darkness, someone took him by the arm, pressed a finger into the crook of his elbow, and put a needle into him. Sokka took a breath, turning his head toward the sting, but too soon he felt the sweep of warm relaxation wash up his arm, through his blood, and again he lost consciousness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Some time later, as if in a new reality a universe away, Sokka woke to someone smartly patting his cheek. He blinked groggily, turning his head away, only faintly aware of the world around him. His eyes wouldn't focus. All the world seemed like nothing but a blur of dim colors and hazy light, but he perceived that he was lying on a bed with a woman sitting beside him. The woman spoke, then rolled his head gently back and forth by his chin, brushing his hair from his forehead. When Sokka resisted the push of her hand, she desisted and instead helped him to sit up.

She put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him forward, but even that small amount of motion made him dizzy, and once upright, he leaned clumsily forward over his legs, confused but trying to make sense. He became aware now of a white-haired man standing at the foot of his bed. Sokka peered lethargically up at him, squinting uselessly at the blur in his eyes, his whole body feeling tingly and warm.

The woman beside him brought a warm cup to his lips, guiding his head with her hand again, and as the cup tipped, he immediately tasted broth, and at once, all thought slipped from his mind except the need to swallow it.

He gulped clumsily, eyes closed and barely remaining upright, and as he drank, the man asked him a question. Without lifting his face, without opening his eyes, Sokka tried dumbly to answer it without even having understood it, mumbling into the cup. No one said anything after that, and Sokka drank until the broth was gone.

The woman took the cup away, and on his own, Sokka tried to brace himself up with one hand, but the hand didn't seem to be working properly. In confusion, he sank instead down to his elbow, head hanging, but soon after, he lay back down entirely, unwilling to put in the effort to stay upright anymore.

The man stepped up beside him then and leaned over him, patting his cheek again. Sokka tried to look up at him, his eyelashes obscuring his vision, but he was too tired—he only wanted to sleep. The man was talking to him, but Sokka couldn't understand it. His eyes were already rolling back under his eyelids. He closed his eyes and lay there a while, listening to the man and woman exchanging words over him, but soon lost track of the world.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Not long after that, in a dim and echoey chamber, Sokka came awake once more as he was being lifted from a stretcher onto a mat on the floor. Blinking in confusion, he caught a glimpse of a gray stone ceiling, moving away with dizzying effect as he was lowered to the floor. Someone put a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body, and around him, there was the click of many footsteps. He turned his head, his hair falling over his face, and peered blearily out across the floor as a row of barely-discernable boots filed away from him. A barred door slid shut with a clang, and the boots faded from sight, the sound of their footfalls becoming just a dim echo in his mind. As he closed his eyes again, he vaguely registered the change of scenery but was too tired to care, and within moments, he fell back to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Sokka finally regained consciousness, it was gradual and quiet but finally marked once again by the same sense self-awareness that might have accompanied any morning waking up in his own sleeping bag. Whatever drug had disoriented and detached him for so long had finally set him back down on the earth.

Lying with his eyes closed, he noticed first simply being awake, then expanded his consciousness to include the awareness of his physical existence in space and the position of his own body. He was nestled comfortably on his side on the soft mat beneath him, warm and secure under his blanket. In peace, he lay still for a while, not bothered enough to move beyond his solitary bubble, but after a long hesitation breathed in deeply and adjusted himself, rolling onto his back. Only then did he notice anything out of the ordinary.

Opening his eyes and stretching his arms out under the blanket, he registered that his left hand felt cumbersome and heavy, unable to move or bend at the wrist. Propping himself up slightly and pulling back the blanket, he found that it had been cast in plaster and bandages. He blinked at it, realizing that someone had set his broken bone for him, and was amazed that anyone would go to the trouble. He pushed himself up to sit.

His body was weak and hesitant to wake up, but as his blood started pulsing through his veins again, he could feel it reinvigorating his muscles. He looked at himself and saw that he was dressed in a simple prisoner's tunic and pants again, russet colored, and in much better condition than the ones he'd initially been given. He pushed his hair out of his face with his uncast right hand and saw, too, that this wrist was wrapped in bandages. Seeing that, he pulled open his collar and glanced down his shirt, finding that his chest, too, was wrapped in bandages, and that a long bandage also ran down his left side. They felt as natural on his skin as his clothes did, as if he'd been wearing them quite a long time. And, he noted, the burns that they were covering ached only dully.

Dropping his collar, he looked up at his surroundings, taking in now what he'd only barely perceived before. He was in a private prison cell. The foremost wall was a long row of bars with a sliding gate in one side, and the other three walls were polished red stone. The whole space was roomy enough to walk at least five paces across it any direction, and in front of him, in the far rear corner, stood a simple chamber pot. Looking behind him, in the opposite rear corner, his eyes fell upon a meal laid out for him.

At the sight of food, his heart raced, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. He rolled onto his knees and crawled over to the tray, his blanket clinging to his legs, trailing behind him, and found a small helping of cold porridge, sliced bananas and cheese, and dark bread and butter, laid out beside a generous wooden pail of water accompanied by a drinking ladle.

He sat for a while, eating single-mindedly, virtually starved, then sucked down ladle after ladle of water until the pail was nearly half empty. Panting, he set the ladle back with a sharp click, resting with his thumb hooked over the edge of the basin, and took a moment to catch his breath, monumentally grateful for what he was sure had been his first meal in days. He waited with his head bowed, letting his stomach settle, cherishing the feeling of food in his body again, and when he was ready, lifted his head and turned back to his room, ready to think.

The most obvious question he had was, where was he? Bracing himself with one hand against the wall, he shakily pushed himself to his feet, stepping out of his tangled blanket and seeing that there were even slippers on his feet. He walked over to the row of bars which faced nothing but a blank stone wall, and grabbed one of the bars with his right hand while resting his cast on a waist-level cross bar, leaning forward to maximize his sight line, but to little effect. To the left was nothing but more of the blank wall, stretching only far enough into the distance to accommodate three more cells like his, he supposed, and to the right, just at the corner of his own cell, was the corner of the hallway, turning and leading away behind him along the rightmost wall of his cell. The floor all around was simple concrete, and the space was lit by creamy-white glass lanterns set high into the walls. The air around him was dead quiet.

"Hello?" he called, his voice crackly with disuse. Clearing his throat, he swallowed and waited for an answer he didn't expect and was rewarded with ringing silence. He was alone.

He turned back to his cell, looking over its sparse furniture and realizing how much _better_ this was than anything he'd yet seen in captivity. A warmth of pained gratitude overtook him, and he leaned back against the bars, fully registering now how unspeakably _glad_ he was just to be unchained and clothed again.

He took a breath, as if to confirm the truth of it, and concluded that these new accommodations were not Azula's doing. He was in someone else's care now. Azula had gotten rid of him, just as she'd said she would.

He folded his arms across his stomach, trying to reassure himself of the reality of it, to grant himself a rare moment of unironic optimism, when the unfamiliar bulk of his cast against his hip drew his attention. He looked down at it, holding it in front of him, and prodded it with his right hand, doing what he could to disturb it and move it, but he couldn't shift it enough to cause pain to the broken bone. Wonderful, he thought, shaking his head in amazement. He'd been given quality medical attention. This was the work of a real physician, not some shoddy battlefield medic. Whoever he was with now took some pains to be professional and clinical, quite a far cry from anything Azula would have granted him. So he was safe now, out of that nightmare of a dungeon forever. He could be confident in that.

He stood quietly for a while, cradling his cast in his hand, staring unfocusedly into empty space as his thoughts turned heavy and uncomfortable. With a sudden shiver of disgust, he pulled himself away from the bars and returned to his mat, sitting down with his back against the wall, folding his arms across his knees and resting his head against them. Thinking logically, he knew it had been days, at least, since he was last in Azula's presence, but the memory of it was so vivid, and his level of consciousness since then so tenuous that it felt as if he had only just survived her mock execution last night. He was invaded with the memories of his own body jerking in her fist, his childlike weeping, begging to be left alone. The terror of death, the convulsive dry heaving.

He felt sick, a cold sweat pricking at his skin. He was consumed with the feeling of being at fault, guilty, dirty and betrayed. Sitting here now, he was surprised at how readily his throat tightened and eyes burned at the mere memory of it all. He lifted his head, nostrils flared, and blinked coldly at his room, swallowing once to enforce his control of himself.

 _Stop it,_ he told himself. _Don't go there._

He let out a quivering breath and purposefully turned his attention back to his room, refocusing on the mystery of his change of fortune. He knew he'd been moved, not just from the dungeon but from the Earth Kingdom base entirely. The state of the infrastructure here was too permanent and too well-maintained to be a temporary outpost. From the decor alone, he could safely assume he was in the Fire Nation now, but where exactly he was hesitant to guess.

Scanning his scattered memories from the past few days, he wondered if he might be able to form a more complete theory, but his impressions were virtually useless. All he could recall were vague shapes of light and shadow, people without faces, hands moving him because he couldn't. He couldn't even accurately get an impression of how long it had been.

His unbroken wrist itched beneath the bandages, and he rubbed it against his knee. He thought how he would like to see the state of his burns now, then touched his chest, wondering at how little they hurt compared to the raw, aching mess Azula had left them in. But to see them, he would have to destroy the bandaging, and his desire to let them go on healing was greater than his desire to investigate.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. It was so quiet here. Strange, he thought, that there were so few cells, and no other prisoners. He wondered if this was some kind of quarantine bay. In any case, his isolation was somewhat disappointing, because he would have loved to have had another prisoner to talk to. Alone and deprived of all his belongings, there was simply _nothing to do_.

As such, with nothing to occupy him, it wasn't long before he felt drowsy again. Resigning himself and succumbing to his own exhaustion, he lay back down on his mat, pulling the blanket over him and feeling almost as though he could rest without end. Allowing his grip on consciousness to be weak, he lay there for a long time dozing.

After a long time, what could have easily been hours of solitude, Sokka once again became alert at the sound of two people coming up the hallway. He opened his eyes, distinguishing the separate sounds of the sharp click of a pair of boots and the smart padding of slippers.

Before he'd even lifted his head from the pillow, a man appeared on the other side of the bars at the corner of his cell. He was older, with slickly parted white hair and a number of wrinkles creasing his bronzed face, but there was still an air of youth and liveliness in his body. He wore a long black austere uniform and carried a doctor's satchel. At his shoulder appeared a stoic woman guard.

Sokka propped himself up cautiously, looking at him, and the man said, "You're awake. Good evening." Sokka didn't reply, but the man waited a moment before accepting his silence. "I'm just here to check on you," he continued formally. "If you cooperate, I won't have to call for more guards." He signaled to the woman to unlock the gate.

As the guard moved to the door, Sokka asked, "Who are you?"

"The prison doctor," the man answered.

"Which prison?"

The doctor met his eye. "You're in the palace," he said.

Sokka was taken aback by that, struck with a mild thrill of anxiety. That couldn't be.

"The _Fire Lord's_ palace?" he asked.

The doctor lifted an eyebrow tolerantly. "The _only_ palace," he said.

Sokka could think of nothing to say but merely stared at the doctor for a moment. The guard slid the gate open and stepped aside for the doctor. As the man entered his cell, Sokka raised another question:

"Do you _normally_ keep prisoners in the palace?"

"Only in rare circumstances," the doctor replied, setting his bag on the floor. "As you can see, we're not equipped to hold many." He gestured to the left, toward the other empty cells.

Sokka followed his hand distractedly, already getting lost in nervous thought. Why was he in the palace itself?

The doctor kneeled at Sokka's bedside and took a stethoscope from his bag. He held it up, as if to indicate his intentions, and asked Sokka simply, "May I?"

Sokka looked at the device and reluctantly sat up, nervous of the man but trusting his intentions. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. Taking this as consent, the doctor put the ear buds into his ears and lifted the back of Sokka's shirt. The cold metal of the stethoscope touching his skin sent a ripple of goosebumps across Sokka's back. He waited patiently, if on edge, while the doctor listened to his breathing, and glanced up at the woman guard, who was watching disinterestedly from the gate.

"Are you in pain?" the doctor asked, moving the stethoscope across Sokka's back. Sokka shrugged a little but didn't elaborate. The doctor didn't press him but moved the stethoscope again. "Do you feel sick?" he asked.

Sokka shook his head slightly, answering, "No."

The doctor pulled his hand from Sokka's shirt and shifted to kneel in front of him. "That's good," he commented, gesturing for Sokka to sit up straighter then slipping his hand up Sokka's shirtfront, pressing the stethoscope against him just under his collarbone, above his bandages. He paused, listening closely for Sokka's heart. "Weak, I imagine?" he asked, turning his eyes to Sokka's face for a response. Sokka simply looked at him and shrugged again. The doctor nearly sighed.

"Yes, well," he said, removing his hand from Sokka's shirt and pulling the ear buds from his ears, "that's partly due to the sedation. It will wear off." He pulled his satchel to him and replaced the stethoscope inside. "The condition you were in when you first arrived here," he began to explain, then paused. "Well, you were very ill. If you had come any later, I'm not sure you would have recovered." He looked at Sokka soberly as if to emphasize his point. Then he reached forward and put his hand against Sokka's forehead, pausing only briefly before taking it away again. "But your fever finally broke yesterday morning, and I expected you'd be much improved today." He nodded slightly, seeming satisfied. "I'm glad to see you doing well."

The doctor rose and picked up his bag. "The Fire Lord has been waiting to see you," he said. "I'll tell him you'll be able to meet with him tonight."

Sokka's heart skipped, and he looked up sharply at the doctor. "What?" he asked. The doctor cocked his brow at him. "Why?"

The doctor took a breath and explained to him patiently, "For a debriefing, I imagine. You _are_ a member of the Avatar's party, yes? You couldn't have thought you would be held without questioning."

Sokka furrowed his brow but accepted this answer.

"The guards should come to collect you in a few hours," the doctor said. "I'll have someone bring you dinner before then."

The doctor stepped out of his cell, and as the woman guard turned the key in the lock, Sokka wondered why the Fire Lord _himself_ would want to see him. It was a moment before he realized he was letting the doctor escape.

"Wait," he said suddenly, and the pair stopped just as they were about to turn down the hall. "How long have I been out?" he asked.

The doctor looked at him and answered evenly, "Six days."

Sokka's eyes rounded slightly. It seemed a long time to be unconscious.

"Don't exert yourself," the doctor warned as farewell. "Just rest for now. I'll see you again in the morning."

And with that, the pair disappeared down the hall, and Sokka listened to their footsteps until they faded behind the sound of a door closing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was late in the evening when the guards came for Sokka. He stood calmly for the pair of them while they shackled his wrists in front of him in a tall pair of metal shackles, one cuff fitting just over his arm, above his wrist, to accommodate his cast. The cuffs were bound together by only three links of chain, severely limiting his mobility.

The guards led him down the dark hallway around the corner of his cell, up out of the basement, and down a few interior passages. The architecture around them was stately and businesslike, simple and unadorned. At the end of one hallway, they stopped, and one of the guards knocked on a heavy, wooden door but didn't wait for an answer before swinging the door inward and ushering Sokka, with the other guard, inside.

The room they stepped into was a large office and library, the walls paneled with dark wood and lined top to bottom with books and scrolls. The rows of bookshelves were punctuated with tall, narrow windows which blurred the radiant blue night sky through their decorative glasswork. On one half of the room stood a writing desk, backed by a tall, mountainous painting, and on the other, where Sokka and the guards stood, were arranged a few reading chairs. Here, in one corner of the bookshelves, holding a small book open in his hands, his eyes fixed on them, stood Fire Lord Ozai.

Sokka stared at him, half in analytical observation and half in intimidated wonder, struck by the significance of this encounter. This was Ozai, the single man for whom the entire world was at war.

Ozai closed his book and replaced it on the shelf, waving the guards off almost disinterestedly. He stood and regarded Sokka with composure as the guards bowed slightly and stepped out, closing the door behind them, the heavy thud reverberating through the room.

For a moment, Sokka and Ozai regarded each other in silence. Ozai was dressed simply for his position, in formal red-embroidered robes without accessory. His hair was loose but for a simple half-ponytail, long and dark, with a narrow, carefully trimmed goatee. Sokka was surprised to see how young he looked, glowing in the prime of his life, healthy and fit. Aware of his own deteriorated physique, Sokka suddenly felt self-conscious. He absently twisted his arms in his shackles.

"Welcome," Ozai said. Sokka said nothing. "Let's not waste any time, shall we? I know who you are, and there's only one thing I want to know from you: where is the Avatar?"

Sokka flexed his jaw, feeling compelled not to answer but conscious of the fact that there was no reason to stay silent. There was no information he could give. Ozai waited for his reply but seemed to understand his silence.

"You don't know," he said.

Sokka gave up his reticence, not wanting to draw this out longer than it had to be. "How could I?" he asked, his tone low and serious.

Ozai pressed him regardless. "They're your friends. You must know their plans."

"You and I both know they're on the run," Sokka said, showing all his cards at once, because there was no point playing coy. "There _are_ no plans."

"None at all?" Ozai insisted.

Sokka was already impatient with this line of questioning. "There is _nothing_ I can tell you," he said. "You're wasting your time."

Ozai seemed to accept this, and not merely with professional grace but with some element of satisfaction. He looked at Sokka with an expression that could only indicate a sort of respect. He seemed to appreciate Sokka's directness.

"How are you tolerating your imprisonment?" he asked, his tone becoming light, changing tacks. "Not clinging to any rescue fantasies, I hope."

Sokka narrowed his eyes. "They don't even know where I am," he said, and a dark shadow passed over his heart, because he was admitting it to himself for the first time as much as he was answering Ozai.

"But they might guess," Ozai suggested, and Sokka immediately resented being played this way.

"They wouldn't come anyway," he answered with finality. "At this point, it would be too dangerous, and a waste of resources."

He stood there defiantly, looking back at Ozai, swallowing once to sustain his resolve, and Ozai looked back, studying him with interest. After a moment, he smiled, seeming pleased with Sokka's answers.

"You're quite the pragmatist," he said. "And very intelligent. I'm impressed." Sokka sensed that he was actually sincere. But the calm change in Ozai's manner gave Sokka the impression that the Fire Lord was getting to his _real_ purpose now, and not knowing what to expect, Sokka's senses hummed with vague disquiet.

"When Azula sent you to me," Ozai said, crossing the room as he spoke so that Sokka had to turn in order to follow his movements, "her letter contained what amounts to glowing praise, coming from Azula. You are the only non-bender in the Avatar's party, yet _you_ are the one who organized the invasion on the Day of Black Sun. You are the one who executed the only successful escape in history from the Boiling Rock. And moreover, for having no bending skills whatsoever, you've somehow managed to fight alongside the _Avatar_ all this time, against even Azula herself, and still hold your own."

By now, Ozai's enthusiasm was virtually palpable, his growing appreciation evident in his body language, his sincerity.

He stopped near the door, and Sokka realized that Ozai had managed to position himself in such a way as to block the exit. Suddenly the room took on the atmosphere of having become a trap. Ozai said in a smooth and mild voice, "You have been a worthy adversary on the field. And I am very happy to have you here."

Sokka was uncomfortable. His body tingled with anxiety, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He and Ozai locked eyes, and Ozai seemed now far too familiar to be conducting a formal interrogation. Sokka suspected things were about to turn very bad. Then Ozai stepped closer.

Sokka thrilled unexpectedly with a wave of adrenaline, reactively taking a half-step back before freezing again, having caught himself too late, failing to stifle the impulse.

Ozai noticed this and chuckled a little as he closed the remaining distance between them. Sokka tensed at Ozai's intimate proximity.

"It's all right," Ozai cooed reasonably. But as Ozai lifted his hand, Sokka sensed there was real danger here, and he flinched back slightly as Ozai took hold of Sokka's shirtfront. "If you cooperate, I won't have to hurt you," Ozai said, and he pulled Sokka toward him, looking down into his face with a chilling smile. "I just want you to perform a little service for me."

Their faces were only a few inches apart now, and Sokka was unable to tear his gaze away from Ozai, his body going cold with a latent fear. Ozai seemed consumed with a gluttonous admiration, the color in his face slowly rising. When he next spoke, his voice was low, morphed into a husky growl.

"Suck my dick," he said.

At first, it was as if Sokka didn't understand him, all meaning in words suddenly incomprehensible. But as reality caught back up to him, his breath hardened in his throat, his heart pounding in the void behind his ribs. He nearly lost his balance.

He pulled back against Ozai's fist, a shiver going through him, staring into the face of the man and not believing this could be happening. But Ozai didn't let him go, instead stepping closer to him and bringing their bodies together. Sokka felt the tip of the Ozai's erection brush against his hand, and it was as if an alarm suddenly exploded to life in his head. Jarred into action with an appalled noise of distress, Sokka violently flinched away, tearing himself out of Ozai's grip.

 _No,_ he thought. It was the only word he could think of.

The realization of what he'd been asked to do hit him like a battering ram to the chest. Every nerve in his body came alive, screaming at him, making the world seem unreal. He backed away from Ozai in a cloud of buzzing panic, and in only a few steps bumped into the desk behind him. He started, looking at it as if it were about to attack him, frozen in bewilderment.

Ozai approached him again, saying, "None of this, now. You're only delaying the inevitable."

Sokka flashed him a look, edging away from him, feeling like an animal in a cage. His chest was tight, his lungs empty, but even now he could see the inescapable truth of Ozai's words. The knowledge of it barreled through him like a suffocating wind. For every inch Ozai neared, Sokka backed away further, not letting him get close, his heart contracting in a dread so powerful it was like sickness.

Ozai's expression was no longer amused but hard and impatient. He reached forward, and when Sokka tried to dart away, Ozai caught him by the back of the collar and yanked him roughly back. Sokka shouted, trying to tug free, but Ozai snarled at him, " _Enough_ ," and slammed him facedown onto the desk.

Sokka barked in pain, a cascade of brushes and ink bottles clattering away from his impact. Ozai pinned him from behind, trapping Sokka's arms beneath his chest, the metal of the cuffs digging into his ribs. He struggled to get up, but Ozai was too strong and too heavy for him. Sokka's heart was pounding frantically, his pulse in his head seeming loud enough to deafen him. Squirming under the weight of Ozai's arms, the realization of his complete helplessness hit him hard. There was nothing he could do. He shouted, nearly crying, because this wasn't something he was capable of escaping. _This was going to happen._

The next moment, Ozai reached forward and took Sokka's head in his hands. Sokka gasped, not expecting this, and Ozai held him firmly down, his fingers forming a cage over Sokka's head, fanning out wide and digging into his scalp, covering his eyes and blinding him.

"Aaaanh!" Sokka cried, as much in confusion as in anger and pain, trying to lift his head, straining his neck against Ozai. But under the force of all that weight, he was useless. Ozai leaned down over him, covering his body with his own, and Sokka felt tears welling up in his eyes even beneath Ozai's fingertips. He could feel Ozai's erection pressing into his leg and couldn't even move to escape it. He whimpered, agonized, his spirit dying on the table.

There was a brief moment of stillness, of giving up, like dropping off a ledge, when Sokka had stopped struggling and Ozai had him encompassed, before Sokka noticed the warmth developing at his eyes. But once the sensation registered in his mind, he recognized what it was, and as quickly as the heat built up, so did his panic. Gasping in horror, he tried once more to push himself up, shouting "No!" and tossing his head to get away, but Ozai's grip was unshakable, and within moments, the heat at his eyes had intensified into a blinding pain.

Sokka forgot everything around him. Ozai's fingers dug into his eyelids, over his tear ducts, pouring heat like fire into his corneas. Sokka screamed, thrashing on the desk, and Ozai put all his weight forward, shoving Sokka's head down onto the table to keep him still. Sokka twisted aside, his cheekbone grinding against the writing surface, and cried uncontrollably, mad with the desire to escape the pain. Ozai flared the heat in his fingers to a level Sokka couldn't withstand, and he screamed shrilly, like glass breaking, for the sheer terror of having his eyes burnt out of his head.

But Ozai didn't maim him, stopping there and letting the heat die away without searing Sokka's skin. But the heat was so piercingly painful that, to Sokka, the difference was almost negligible. He lay on the desk, Ozai's hands still encasing him, half wailing, tears running down his face in hot rivulets, coursing around Ozai's fingers. Ozai said nothing, but his message was abundantly clear: he was _absolutely_ in control.

Without further show, Ozai released him and pulled him from the desk, turning him around and pushing him abruptly to his knees. Sokka blinked wildly at the pain in his eyes, vision red and watery and full of shooting lights. He hit the floor nearly as blind as if Ozai's hands had still been on him, but he could perceive enough to recognize the motion of Ozai opening his robes and exposing himself before Sokka's face.

Sokka fell back, whimpering, but Ozai reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, bringing him back and shoving his head backward against the desk. He bent and put his hands on Sokka's face, prying his mouth open and forcing himself in.

Sokka gagged, his eyes flooding and his face turned upward, Ozai's hands pressed hard into his cheeks to keep his teeth apart. The force of Ozai's body knocked him back against the desk, and he tried to reach for Ozai's wrists, but he was crowded out, his shackles limiting his maneuverability.

Ozai moved into him not with violence but with deliberation, and Sokka cried, choking and gagging, unable to pull away, unable even to keep his balance, shoved back awkwardly onto his heels, slipping against the desk. He clutched with both hands at Ozai's knee in an attempt to stay upright, struggling just to breathe, gasping through his nose in the brief moments he had an open air passage. Ozai slammed against the back of his throat, bruising and hurting him.

When at last Ozai came, Sokka gagged suddenly and loudly, choking on semen and heaving uncontrollably forward, coughing violently even as Ozai slipped prematurely from his mouth. Sokka lurched forward, bending double, a string of mucous smearing back across his cheek, and Ozai stepped back to give him room, taking himself into his own hand to finish. As Sokka hacked unceremoniously into the floor, bracing himself on his cuffed hands, white splashes of semen spattered the tile beside him.

In the aftermath, Ozai stood panting above him, and Sokka stayed buckled on the floor, shaking and trembling, unable even to lift his face. He spit, clearing his throat repeatedly, even as his mind seemed to be freezing up, going into shock. After a moment, Ozai stepped away, and Sokka unsteadily picked himself up, mechanically getting to his knees. He wiped his cheek on his shoulder, his vision dim and swimming, and when he looked up, Ozai was standing across the room, quietly retying his robes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sokka didn't resist being led back to his cell. When the guards came for him, he went where they nudged him, jaw locked, eyes unfocused, hands clasped together tightly to hide his shaking, bottling himself up like an explosive. He wouldn't look at them, couldn't bear to acknowledge with them what had just taken place. But he had no doubt they knew; at very least, there had been semen on the floor.

When they arrived again at his cell, he allowed them to remove his cuffs at the gate and then stepped rigidly inside as they latched the lock behind him. And there he remained, standing like stone until the last of their footsteps disappeared at the end of the hallway. After a moment, he took a single step toward his mat, but his legs gave out, and he stumbled forward.

His knees hit the mat hard and he caught himself clumsily against the wall, covering his mouth with his one good hand, staring into nothing, fighting back a wave of grief that seemed to wash through his body like a pounding waterfall.

 _No!_ he scolded himself, commanding himself not to lose control. _Calm down. This is nothing. He didn't even_ do _anything to you._

But his mind revolted immediately against that, feeling the false justification, making him sick with dismay. He pinched his eyes shut, making a noise into his hand thick and shrill with distress, but he quickly locked his throat closed, refusing even to breathe, lest it fan the flame.

Sokka shook his head slowly, replaying the interrogation in his memory, unable to understand where it had gone wrong. Where had he slipped up?

But a sinking, collapsing feeling in his chest made him stop suddenly and scold himself again, _No! Stop thinking. You're safe now. You can deal with this. Calm down!_

But with his body screaming for breath, crumpled and quaking against the wall, his mind retaliated against him frantically, even as he tried to reason with it, and a single thought broke to the surface, like lightning ripping through cloud cover:

_I can't!_

And his diaphragm spasmed beyond his control, sucking in air through his constricted throat, breaking his hold on himself.

With a gasp like surprise, he cried into his hand, a broken-sounding muffled screech, and sunk further onto his knees, curling in on himself and falling into sobs which carried him long into the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sokka was awakened the next morning by a screech of metal which startled him into consciousness. He flinched, turning quickly over in his bed, half sitting up, heart racing, before realizing it was only the doctor opening his cell door.

"Relax," the doctor said to him, stepping inside and setting what appeared to be a small metal wastebasket in the center of the cell. The woman guard who'd accompanied him the night before entered just behind him and set a fresh meal tray in the corner near his water basin, then returned to the hallway and stood without facing them, her hands folded in her lap, waiting patiently.

Sokka was worn out and in no mood for company, but he sat upright in bed, squinting at the world, his eyes still puffy and hurting from the abuse of last night.

The doctor sat his bag down near the bed mat and kneeled before Sokka, bending forward a little to peer at him.

"What did you do to your eyes?" he asked irritably. Sokka blinked, shrugging, and leaned back against the wall, not up for a confrontation. He just felt...tired. The doctor shook his head and grumbled a little, rummaging in his bag for a moment before pulling out a small tube of ointment.

"Here," he said, uncapping the tube and reaching his empty hand for Sokka's face. Sokka flinched away, ducking as if he were about to be hit, and looked up at the doctor in surprise. The doctor scowled slightly.

"Come on now, hold still," he said, and reached again. He took Sokka's face and rested his fingertips against Sokka's eyebrow, pulling his lower eyelid down with his thumb. "Goodness, they're red through and through," he grumbled, then told Sokka to look up.

Sokka did as he was told, clenching his jaw as he did so, trying to cooperate though his eyes burned the more they were opened. The doctor balanced his other hand against Sokka's cheekbone, steadying himself with his pinky as he squeezed a strip of ointment into Sokka's eyelid.

The doctor released him, then turned Sokka's face with his hand, Sokka blinking at the goop already cooling and soothing the irritation, then repeated the procedure on Sokka's other side. When he was done, the doctor returned the tube of ointment to the bag, and Sokka peered foggily around his cell, everything seeming hazy and underwater through the ointment.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked, taking Sokka's bandaged wrist into his hands and prodding it gently.

Sokka swallowed, watching the doctor's hands. "Fine," he said, a bit croaky. The doctor took a pair of bandage scissors from his bag, one blade blunted at the tip to protect Sokka from being cut as it moved along his skin, and snipped away the bandage from Sokka's wrist, pulling back the gauze and revealing the brown-and-purple mottled bruises and the ring of scabbed skin from where he'd rubbed his wrist raw on Azula's shackles. The sight was ugly but greatly healed already.

"It looks all right," the doctor commented, reaching for the little wastebasket he'd brought and dropping the old bandages into it. "I think we can leave it alone now. Just don't pick at it." Sokka snorted. From his perspective, the issue of picking scabs was not a top concern.

But then the doctor said, "Now let's have a look at these burns," gesturing for Sokka to take his shirt off, and Sokka balked at him, a little taken aback. The doctor wrinkled his eyebrows at him. "What's the matter?"

Sokka didn't know what to say, he just didn't like the idea anymore of removing his clothes for a stranger. But the doctor seemed to have no patience for such insecurities. He gestured again, almost sighing. "Come on now, we have to change the bandages."

Sokka felt very uncooperative, but he knew there was no sense arguing. He understood the necessity of medicine and didn't want to begrudge a man who'd only come to help him. Slowly, he rose to his knees and reluctantly pulled his tunic over his head.

As the fabric came free of his body, the complete extent of his bandaging was revealed for the first time. Around his torso was a wide band of white gauze, wrapped across his pectorals, and layered under this, tucked up under his arm pit and running down his left side, ran a long vertical strip of similar dressing held in place by many cross strips of adhesive tape. Lifting his arms overhead made his side twinge a little where the skin stretched, but for the most part, his burns were remarkably painless.

Sokka lowered his crumpled shirt self-consciously to his knees, not looking at the doctor, and when the man moved closer, Sokka stiffened, ill at ease. But when the doctor presented his scissors, Sokka lifted his arm out of the way to grant him access to his side, and the doctor slipped the blade up under the lower edge of Sokka's chest wrapping, snipping carefully upward. When the wrapping was cut all the way through, the doctor slipped the gauze out from around Sokka's torso, pulling gently at the oozy spot on his chest where the moistened dressing clung a little to his burn. Sokka hissed as the cloth pulled away, looking down at the glistening pink disc of skin at the base of his sternum, nestled in the dip between his pectorals.

It was the first time he'd seen the burn in full light. The damaged skin was a bright, vivid pink, seeming almost to glow against the natural copper of his skin tone, speckled with spots and wisps of red where flecks of blood beaded or flowed too near the surface. The wound felt raw but oddly numb and shone with the residue of some kind of pearly ointment.

The doctor heaped the used bandages into the wastebasket, then sat a moment, watching him. "How does that feel?" he asked.

"Fine," Sokka said, idly touching the skin at edge of the burn and smearing a bit of ointment between his fingertips.

The doctor nodded. "Let's see this now," and he tapped the underside of Sokka's broken wrist to tell him to lift his arm. Sokka did so, holding his cast over his head as the doctor gently peeled strip after strip of adhesive tape from Sokka's side, pulling the dressing away as he did so, stinging him with the repeated tugging and causing him considerably more pain than he had with the burn on his chest. Sokka didn't object, however, but merely winced in silence as the doctor slowly exposed the vibrant pink stripe running all the way down his side.

When he got to Sokka's hip, however, the doctor paused, seeming at a loss, and stuck his finger into the waistband of Sokka's pants. Sokka pulled away, startled.

"You'll have to loosen these," the doctor said. The bandage continued on beneath the fabric.

Sokka just looked at him, unresponsive, and didn't immediately obey. The two of them stared at each other for a long moment.

"Well?" the doctor asked, holding the mess of stained bandages in one hand and tugging impatiently at Sokka's pant leg with the other. Sokka knocked his hand away and reared up a little to escape his reach.

"Let me do it," he said defensively, and the doctor huffed but waited.

Hesitantly, Sokka rose to his knees and carefully untied the drawstring at his belly, struggling to overcome the hindrance of his cast but determined to do this alone. Once he'd loosened the knot, he held the drawstrings in his good hand and ran his other thumb along through his waistband, loosening the pants only a little, then carefully pulled down the section at his hip just low enough to expose the remaining few inches of bandage. He would have liked to have removed the final adhesive strips himself, but with his cast, he simply wasn't dexterous enough to accomplish it on his own, so he was relegated to merely holding the fabric out of the way as the doctor tugged the rest of the bandage free from his skin. The angry mark Azula had left on him ended just at the crest of his thigh.

"Healing nicely," the doctor said nonchalantly, pressing experimentally on the skin at Sokka's ribs. Sokka twisted away from him a little, oversensitive to being touched, but the doctor seemed not to notice. He dropped the last of the used bandages into the wastebasket, saying, "A few more days of wrapping, I think, and then we'll reevaluate."

As the doctor rummaged again in his bag and Sokka sat there with his drawstrings in his hand, his pants half hanging off of him, he turned that over in his head. He remembered getting these burns—the smell of his own charred skin, the madness of pain. It seemed remarkable that after only a few days—little more than a week—they'd healed this much. They had been horrible burns, throbbing and raw. They should have taken _weeks_ to repair, not days.

The doctor soon found what he was looking for and sat back with his attention turned from Sokka, removing the lid from a metal tin and stirring up more of the pearly-colored goop with what seemed like a thin, metal spatula. Sokka rubbed again the ointment between his fingers, the texture of it creamy and slick like melted frosting.

"What is this stuff?" he asked.

"Flame balm," the doctor said, scooping some ointment out onto his spatula. "Made from the seeds of certain fire lilies, I believe. Nothing in the world is better for burns." He turned to Sokka, then noticed the concerned expression on his face, and seemed amused at his disbelief. "We're firebenders," he said. "We've learned how to treat our own injuries." The doctor motioned for Sokka to lift his arm again.

Sokka followed the doctor's instruction, keeping his cast overhead and out of the way as the doctor leaned forward to apply the ointment to his side. Sokka flared his nostrils and watched the bars composedly as the doctor slowly slathered his side, clear down to his hip, Sokka's skin crawling all the while. The gentle caress of the doctor's work made him deeply uncomfortable, but he set his jaw and behaved, exhaling with relief when the doctor at last left the spatula in the tin and set the tin on the floor. Having the vertical bandage re-applied was easier, though the constant prodding and taping left him irritable and anxious. When the dressing was once again fully applied and the doctor took his hands away, Sokka settled back on his heels, edgy but thrilled to be finally released, and retied his drawstrings quietly.

After that, it was only a matter of endurance to allow the application of fresh ointment to his chest and to let the doctor wrap new bandages around him, the doctor leaning in close to transfer the clean roll of gauze from one hand to the other around Sokka's torso, nearly hugging him in the process. Sokka merely sat stoic with his hands on his head, head bowed, eyes closed, waiting.

As the doctor tied the end of the bandage at Sokka's side, he said to him, "Now let's see your knee."

Sokka begrudgingly readjusted on his mat, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, and attempted to roll up his pant leg. But his cast made him clumsy and inefficient, and soon the doctor shooed him away, saying, "Let me," and Sokka was forced to relent, leaning moodily back against the wall with his arms crossed, lifting his knee slightly to aid the doctor's work.

The doctor folded the pant leg up with practiced quickness and cut the bandage from Sokka's burnt knee in methodic silence, seeming content to redress the wound without uttering a word. But Sokka, now released from the agony of bodily closeness, felt his mind at work again and was itching to ask questions about the outside world and the friends he'd left behind to fight.

"So what's going on with the war?" he asked.

The doctor glanced up at him quizzically, then returned to re-wrapping his knee, saying, "I don't see why that ought to concern you."

Sokka frowned, feeling a swell of anger, somewhat startled at the shortness of his own fuse. He huffed, barely keeping himself in check. "I'm a _prisoner of war_ ," he said coldly. "What's going on out there is about the _only_ thing that concerns me anymore."

But despite his vehemence, the doctor said nothing.

" _Tell me_ ," Sokka pressed, aggravated. "You can even _gloat_ if you have to, I just want to know."

The doctor finished tying the bandage, then sat back on his heels, taking a breath and looking at Sokka for a moment, seeming to be trying to decide whether or not to speak. In the end, he bowed his head, shaking it a little as he turned to collect his things, and said, "As I said, I don't see the use of your worrying about that anymore. I have nothing more to say."

Sokka's heart ached as the doctor pushed himself up to stand. He took his satchel and the wastebasket in his hands, then added, "The balm should keep your pain down on its own. If not, tell the guard when he brings you your meals, and I'll have some medicine sent to you." With that, he turned to leave.

"Wait!" Sokka protested, resorting to desperation. "Why won't you just tell me? Did something happen? Is it bad?" His expression was forlorn and begging, but he could do nothing but watch helplessly as the doctor and guard filed silently away. He wanted to rush to the bars and call after them, _Just tell me if you've heard anything about my friends!_ , but the hopeless futility of it crushed his spirit, and he was left sitting alone on his mat, listening to the distant thud of the door closing at the end of the hall.

Sokka groaned and put his face in his hands, frustrated by the pointlessness of his efforts and upset and confused with himself about why he couldn't even put up a decent fight.

Eventually, he took his hands from his face and looked tiredly over at the heap of his shirt still crumpled on the floor. After another moment, he reached languidly out and pulled it back to him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later in the day, Sokka stood moodily gripping his bars, leaning forward with his arms splayed, head hanging between his shoulders. All day long, he'd been turning over and over the memories of his encounter with Ozai, trying to reason it out, to find his fault, the place where the whole situation went wrong. But in the end, looking back, Ozai's motivations were simple: he'd only ever wanted the blowjob.

Sokka shivered with disgust. He had come to the conclusion that that was the whole reason he was being kept here. There was no other explanation. As a prisoner with no information or bartering value, Sokka could serve _no_ other purpose. If this wasn't what Ozai had always had in mind, as a permanent arrangement, there would be no reason to keep him here, to give him medical attention and a private, nearby cell, at hand and convenient. Everything, unfortunately, made perfect sense now.

Sokka rolled his head against his shoulder, eyes closed and taking a breath. The question was, then, what was he going to do about it?

The sound of the door opening at the end of the hallway interrupted his thoughts. Sokka stood up, listening to the footsteps approaching his cell, and stepped back from the bars as a single male guard stepped into view, bringing his dinner tray. Sokka looked at him and let out a breath, and the guard slid the tray into Sokka's cell through the grate near the floor of his bars. Their exchange was wordless and civil, and within moments, the guard had departed, and Sokka was alone again.

He glumly stared at his meal tray, rubbing his neck in distracted thought. Evening now. The predictable routine of the palace made it easy to keep track of time, at least. But it meant if Ozai was going to call on him tonight, it would be soon.

Sokka sat and tried for a while to pick at his meal, but he found he had no appetite. So, giving up, he crawled over to his mat and lay back with a _whump_ , his arms overhead, dreading and waiting for the moment he would be summoned.

He didn't know what to do. Thinking of going back to Ozai twisted his stomach into a knot, but he didn't see any way out of it. He lay there and agonized, fantasizing of ways he might side-step his fate, avoid another meeting, or find some weakness in the system that would allow him to make a sudden escape. But it seemed that every fantasy he conjured up inevitably ran into failure. There was simply so little opportunity for creativity that he soon found himself resorting instead to mentally bracing himself for the worst. But that, in turn, made him sick to his stomach, and when he could no longer tolerate his empty rationalizations, he returned again to his fantasies. He lay a long time like this, battling back and forth, never actually able to calm his anxiety.

And yet, no one came. Sokka sat up, agitated, leaning against the wall and combing his hair back from his eyes. It must have been late by now. If no one had come for him yet, was it possible no one would? He rubbed his face. Almost against his will, a little sliver of hope crept into his chest. He tried to quash it with some rational pessimism, telling himself there was no way he wouldn't hear from Ozai again, and it would only make things worse if he allowed himself to believe otherwise. And not long after that, the hallway door opened again, and at the sound of two pairs of boots coming up the hall, Sokka grimly congratulated himself on refraining from being optimistic.

The guards called him to the gate of his cell, and when he merely stared at them and didn't come, they stepped in and jerked him roughly by the arm to lock him into his shackles. Sokka didn't fight them, merely watched in silence as the key turned at his wrist and then proceeded with them down the hallway as they led him away.

But as they crossed the threshold out of the basement, Sokka could already feel his heart rate picking up, his chest tightening. He clenched his jaw, trying to stave off the dread and fear, and watched the guards' feet in front of him as they walked, seeing nothing else, focused only on keeping his cool. So he noticed only belatedly that the route they were taking now was different from the night before.

He looked up. It seemed they were going to an entirely separate wing of the palace, well-removed from the one that housed the prison cells and office. The architecture here was much more ornamental, the decor more residential. They turned down a short corridor lined with tapestries and wide windows which looked out on the torch-lit palace grounds sweeping away before them, the sky inky black and expansive overhead.

In the middle of the hallway was a tall, ornately carved door, darkly lacquered. One of the guards knocked as warning, then opened the door and ushered Sokka inside alone. The room Sokka found himself in was a spacious sitting room, softly lit with flickering lanterns, and finely decorated. As he stepped awkwardly over the threshold, he caught a glimpse through a door standing partly open at the other end of the room of a dressing table and the foot of a grand bed. His stomach turned.

This, he imagined, was Ozai's private living suite. With his face twisted in a grimace of dismay, he turned his attention to the sofa on his right where Ozai lounged calmly in a black silk house robe. At Sokka's back, the guards closed the door again with a meaningful click.

Sokka felt suddenly weak. He wasn't prepared for this. He'd tried to be resolute, to steel himself against it, but it was just too much for him. His whole body felt unnaturally light and unresponsive. Looking at Ozai looking back at him, his mind felt as if it had shorted out. It suddenly hit him hard, the knowledge of what he was here to do and the realization that had _no choice_. The impotence was overwhelming; it was the most painful thing in the world.

Ozai said something, his tone light and friendly, but Sokka didn't hear what it was. He was too sickened by the feeling of his arms in his shackles, by the thought that he couldn't even move. He watched Ozai and saw his mouth moving without comprehending his words, noted how his posture was so relaxed and passive, and when he lifted a hand, beckoning Sokka over, he realized that Ozai had called his name.

Sokka looked at Ozai's hand, then back to his face, but refused to respond more than that.

Ozai wrinkled his brow a little, and his voice came through to Sokka again, reaching his ears as if after a delay, saying in a reasonable tone, "I don't want to fight you."

Sokka just frowned at him, utterly immovable. Ozai took a breath and lowered his hand, then rose from his seat and walked to Sokka. Sokka looked away as Ozai neared him, stifling a whine that threatened to break free from his throat, closing his eyes and tensing to his core but making no move to avoid him. He felt the change in air pressure that signaled Ozai's proximity and shuddered when the man's hand fell on his shoulder. Ozai stepped around behind him, an arm across his back, both hands on his shoulders, like a father comforting his son, and gently led Sokka forward toward the sofa.

Sokka moved only as much as was necessary to keep from falling, his face a mask of misery, allowing Ozai to puppeteer him into kneeling before the sofa. He sat there lifelessly with Ozai at his back, his shackled hands hanging between his legs, and Ozai rested a hand on the crown of Sokka's head, pausing there with their bodies pressed together. When Sokka felt a hard bulge against the back of his head, he bowed his head quickly forward, cringing to get away.

Petting his hair fondly, Ozai stepped around to the front of Sokka again, returning to his seat on the sofa and baring himself without preamble. He waited a moment, as if curious to see whether Sokka would move on his own, and when he didn't, Ozai gave him a simple command to proceed.

But Sokka could do nothing but stare in immobile resignation at the object of the task Ozai had presented him with. So, without impatience, Ozai reached forward and cupped his hand behind Sokka's head, pulling him gently toward him. Sokka did whine this time, resisting his pull only feebly, cringing with disgust as Ozai touched himself to Sokka's un-parted lips.

Sokka breathed, fighting the urge to break down and cry, but after a few moments, knowing that it was pointless to keep resisting, he slowly, hesitantly, opened his mouth.

Ozai smiled, easing himself in, and gently brushed Sokka's hair from his face, pulling the strands away from his mouth where they had gotten caught in his saliva, and pushed it all delicately behind his ears. Sokka made a disgusted noise, breath held, face contorted, and braced his cuffed hands against the sofa between Ozai's legs. Doing his best not to gag, he closed his eyes and haltingly moved his head over Ozai. His hair, too short to stay behind his ears for long, fell back forward against his cheeks.

Ozai leaned back, leaving Sokka alone to work, and Sokka put all his focus on the thought that the sooner he could get this over with, the sooner he could leave. After a few minutes, Ozai started shifting in his seat a little and humming with pleasure.

When Ozai dropped his hand on top of Sokka's head, Sokka flinched, opening his eyes at the fear of being shoved down. But Ozai made no such move, merely resting his hand there, as if in encouragement. Sokka could see now that Ozai's head was thrown back, and in a moment, he lifted his hips from the sofa, groaned sharply, and came into Sokka's mouth.

Sokka gagged in surprise, immediately trying to back off, but Ozai quickly moved his hand to the back of Sokka's head and held him there in place, not letting him free until Ozai had finished.

By the time Ozai finally stilled, Sokka was nauseous with the strain of keeping his mouth closed, trying to contain the mucous which was already spilling out of the corners if his mouth. When Ozai let him go, he turned immediately to the side and spit unglamorously onto the floor, almost as if vomiting. He coughed and hacked and spit again, just to clear the mucous from his throat, and lifted his cuffs to wipe his mouth awkwardly on his knuckles, wanting to be clean of this and frustrated by the fact that he didn't have real use of his hands.

With Sokka preoccupied, Ozai muttered, "Excuse me for a moment," then rose, pushing himself up by Sokka's shoulder. Sokka shrunk from his touch and watched only out of the corner of his eye as Ozai disappeared into the bedroom at the end of the room. Shaking, Sokka pushed himself back from the mess he'd made on the floor, then turned to the sofa, longing for comfort, and leant with his forehead against the cushion.

When Ozai returned, he brought with him a hot, wet rag, which he handed to Sokka.

"Wipe your face," he said.

Sokka looked up, then took the towel and wiped his mouth silently, not looking at Ozai. He then did his best to clean his fingers of the sticky mess he'd coated them in.

"There's a wash room to clean up in, if you'd like," Ozai said, nodding toward the bedroom door. Sokka gripped the towel hard in his hand and didn't reply.

Ozai stood over him a while, as if expecting him to get up, but Sokka just sat there, hunched forward, trying not to be upset. Eventually Ozai left his side, saying, "As you wish. I'm ringing the bell now."

He went across the room and pulled a braided cord hanging near the bedroom door. Sokka, frightened by the idea of the guards finding him like this, forced himself to stand, unsteady though he was on his feet. It didn't matter how disturbed he felt; he would not be pulled from his knees like some broken victim. After a moment, he managed to drop the towel from his fist.

Sokka turned from the sofa and took a few steps toward the center of the room, eyes to the floor, scowling with sickness, and when the guards opened the door, he went numbly toward them, eager to leave. When one of the guards reached for his elbow, Sokka shrugged sharply away from him, snarling without looking at him, and proceeded into the hallway on his own. Without further fuss, the guards fell into step beside him and led him back to the basement.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At his cell, Sokka stood in the gate while the guards removed his cuffs, then reached out and gripped a bar with one hand as the guards slid the gate back into place. He stood there, leaning against the bar, balancing himself and grounding himself, saying in his head, _You're safe now,_ as the guards departed and left him again in silence.

By the time he heard the door close, he was already repeating the same thing over and over in his head, a self-soothing script of, _You're safe now. It's all right. Calm down. You're safe now._

But a terrible, uncontrollable fury was churning inside him, and though he tried to mentally block it out, with a sudden crash of anguish, his thoughts betrayed him. _Safe?!_ he mocked himself. _You're not safe! This is waiting, knowing helplessness!_

Crying in inexpressible rage, he lashed out, lunging toward the wall and punching the stone, hurting himself, bloodying his knuckles. He dropped to his knees, bending forward and gripping his head, shaking. _You are not safe,_ he repeated. _This is not safety. There is nothing safe here._

A prisoner of war, he had called himself. But now, the word that pervaded his consciousness was a cold, vindictive accusation: _Sex slave_.

Sokka wept, unable to keep it back any longer. This was so wrong. What had he done to bring this on? What did it mean about him?

A memory came into his mind of the last night he'd spent with Suki—the night Katara and Zuko had returned from finding his mother's killer, the night before Sokka's capture.

He and Suki had been in his tent. He had laid her down and leaned over her, put his knee between her thighs and his hands on either side of her head. At the time, it had felt right, but remembering it now, he doubted himself. He was frightened of the idea that he had done something wrong. He remembered that he had wanted to feel that she was _his_ , that he could encircle her completely and contain her. Keep her. Pin her.

He felt sick. Thinking of it now, it seemed so _invasive_. How could he ever have thought that that was all right to do? Had he forced her without realizing? Had she felt unsafe? He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, groaning in distress. In that moment, he had meant no harm to her at all. He would never try to take advantage of her! The thought of Suki in distress—the thought of _him_ doing something to her—it was too painful to bear.

He was torturing himself. He was consumed with harsh, self-judging paranoia, but he needed to be sure. He needed to see the moment clearly. He stopped, forcing himself to recall the exact details of their encounter, her exact expression, the exact mood.

They had been clothed all the time. But they had been intimate. They had touched each other.

Suki had been on her back, her arms resting beside her, her hands near her face, near _his_ hands as he leaned over her. His hair had been loose, dangling at the edges of his vision as he looked down at her, and she had looked placidly back up at him.

She'd looked so relaxed and soft, giving him the impression that there was no tension in her body at all. Her cheeks had been pink with a slight flush, and when he'd smiled at her, she'd smiled back, small and understated but utterly content. Looking into her eyes, the rest of the world had seemed to fade out of his awareness, so much less important than her at the moment, and when her eyes creased slightly as her smile widened at him, he'd felt heat rising to his face, a rush of warmth in his chest, a swell of unbelievable affection which had made him think, _I love you_ , without any kind of filter. He'd bent, then, and pressed his lips to her forehead, and Suki had closed her eyes, tilting her head back on an intake of breath like a sigh. Willing. Wanting.

On the floor of his cell, Sokka was hit with a powerful pang of grief. A sob boiled up to the top of his chest, and though he tried to contain it, it poured out of him anyway, rolling up out of his stomach and spilling into his mouth. The sound of it was low and strained, a wordless note of heartache, of incredible, crushing longing.

She had loved him, too. That had been her expression.

He leaned forward on one elbow, covering his eyes with his good hand and convulsing timidly on the floor. He felt so broken and alone, like a stone statue cracked through the middle and left discarded in a cold tomb. He wished that Suki was here, to hold him one more time, if only for a moment.

For the first time since his fall into captivity, the pain that Sokka felt the most was a haunting, echoing loneliness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the morning, the doctor and female guard returned to Sokka's cell, waking him with their footsteps. Sokka was too tired and miserable to care what they did to him, but as the doctor entered his cell, Sokka took the effort to at least sit up, slouching forward cross-legged with his blanket over his legs, not bothering to turn to face the man.

The doctor set his satchel down and kneeled beside it in the middle of the cell, watching him quietly. The guard, over his shoulder, set his breakfast tray on the floor near the gate, then stood up and uncharacteristically trained her eyes on him, too. As Sokka stared ahead at the spot where the far wall met the floor, the weight of a realization slowly settled over on him. The doctor knew. And the guard knew. They had always known. It seemed so obvious to him now. How had he not thought of it before?

He exhaled, feeling like a rock had just been dropped into his chest. As he and the doctor sat there in silence, the knowledge of Sokka's purpose here seemed to loom over them like a separate presence in the room. Sokka's eyebrow pinched into a self-pitying scowl. He felt like such a freak show.

The doctor spoke first. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Sokka wouldn't speak.

"How is your wrist?" the doctor asked, pointing mildly toward it. Sokka blandly lifted his hand, giving it to the doctor for inspection. The doctor rubbed his thumb over a fading bruise, pressing on a tender spot and hurting him, but Sokka made no reaction. The doctor paused, then released his wrist. After another moment, he said, "We can leave your bandages for today."

Sokka nodded a little, grateful for the consideration, and the doctor rose to his feet. But as he stepped out into the hall, as the guard put her hand on the gate to close it, Sokka interrupted, asking hoarsely, "Are there others?" He turned his head slightly, looking up at them, expressionless and tired.

The doctor paused and turned back to him. The guard looked at the doctor. The doctor shook his head a little and answered simply, "No."

Sokka waited, letting the answer settle in the air, then nodded once and turned his face back to the corner ahead of him. There was nothing more to say. The guard slid the gate closed, and the pair of them left.

Sokka sat motionless a long time, not caring to touch his breakfast, not even caring to lie back down. He was the only one, then, the only one Ozai kept.

His mind churned away at it. If Sokka was truly the only person Ozai used for sexual gratification, then Ozai's motivations weren't driven purely by sex. If they had been, he could have taken any number of concubines, and he would have had no use for a prisoner. So there was something more to it.

Sokka easily concluded it was merely the excitement of being able to subdue a prestigious enemy. It wasn't _lust_ Ozai was satisfying, but his megalomaniacal fantasies. He had chosen Sokka only because he was a member of Team Avatar.

But then again, there was something else, too. Sokka thought back to their last encounter, how Ozai had lounged so passively, wanting Sokka to take the initiative. Even despite his first show of force, Ozai had made it clear: he didn't want to fight for it. No doubt it wasn't the fight that excited him, but the _victory_. So it seemed his primary concern was not only that his victim be prestigious, but also that they be _easy_. Someone who would pose no threat, who would have no chance of making things difficult. Which meant, above all else, _no benders_.

Had it been Aang, Katara, or Toph, they would have simply been imprisoned, or killed. It was just _Sokka_ who fit the bill so nicely, _Sokka_ who couldn't defend himself, _Sokka,_ and no one else, whom Ozai wanted. Never before had he been so painfully aware—as Ozai had even pointed out on their very first meeting—that Sokka was the _only_ non-bender on Team Avatar.

He sank against the wall with a thud, sick to his stomach, having never felt so disgusting before in his life. Sluggishly, he lay back down, sliding against the wall, and then put his forehead against it when he landed, feeling nothing but heavy and depressed, like he wanted to pass out and think of nothing ever again. To disappear into oblivion.

He lay without moving for so long that he eventually fell back to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later, when the guards woke him, Sokka blinked groggily as he was hefted up and shackled, slowly coming to realize that he'd slept all day long, right through dinner, as if by sheer force of will.

With the night sky heavy and black in the windows, Sokka was deposited once again into Ozai's private sitting room. As the guards closed the door behind him, Sokka looked to Ozai, again in his silken house robe, who stepped up before him and stood with his arms folded across his chest, merely looking at him. Sokka looked back, expressionless and listless, and the moment stretched on. Finally, Ozai lifted a hand and touched the side of Sokka's face, running his thumb across his cheek. Sokka turned his head away from the touch but made no other move to fight it.

Ozai moved his fingers to cradle Sokka's chin and said simply, "I love this mouth of yours." Sokka flexed his jaw, unhappy.

Ozai took a step closer, dropping his hand and running it down Sokka's arm, taking Sokka by one cuffed wrist. He pulled Sokka's hands toward him and pressed his knuckles gently against Ozai's crotch. Ozai was still soft and harmless beneath the fabric.

"I have an idea," he said. He watched Sokka a moment for a response but received none. Sokka's eyes were turned aside, refusing to look at him. "You're a good kid," Ozai continued, releasing Sokka's wrist. "A smart kid." He hooked one finger over the chain between the cuffs and tugged on it gently. "Let's get rid of these."

Sokka's heart turned in his chest, his eyes flickering out of focus for a moment as he registered the statement. _What?_ He flicked his eyes up to Ozai's face, and Ozai was looking at him calmly, half-smiling even, gauging Sokka's reaction. Sokka's heart rate ticked slightly faster. Remove the cuffs?

It occurred to him that if Ozai took away the one, final thing literally binding him in helplessness, Sokka would be free to fight back, to escape. A timid panic filled his chest. If that happened, how would he react? He couldn't possibly justify his cooperation if he were really free to run.

But Sokka's silence only communicated to Ozai a lack of objection, so he smiled, then stepped away from Sokka, going to a nearby table and picking up a key lying there. As Sokka watched him, his heart raced. He suddenly realized that this was going to happen, that his release was imminent, and it filled him with racing panic, his breath short, his jaw locked. He was afraid, he realized, to lose the chains. He didn't want to be released. He didn't want that pressure put on him. The prospect of freedom was unbelievably frightening.

But Ozai returned, unperturbed as ever, and Sokka watched intensely the key in his hand, eyes unblinking and wide. Ozai took Sokka's cuffs into his hands and unlocked one, then the other, with a soft click. He folded the key into his palm and with both hands slipped the shackles from Sokka's wrists. As the metal pulled free of his skin, Ozai looked up at him, but Sokka stayed still, eyes staring at his naked arms, still held in front of him, not knowing what to do. He glanced up at Ozai, catching his eye, and Ozai nodded once, pleased, then turned and unconcernedly made his way back to the table.

Sokka's eyes stayed locked on Ozai's retreating back, every fiber of his being screaming at him to make a break for it now, while he had the chance.

 _Go_ , he told to himself. _Go._ But he felt locked in place. He couldn't move. As he watched Ozai walk away, he couldn't even bring his eyes to _look_ toward the door, as if even that imperceptible movement would give him away, sound the alarm, get him caught.

He swallowed, face flushing, heart hammering in his throat. He hadn't even realized until this moment how _afraid_ he was of being caught, this petrifying panic of a failed escape attempt. He'd tried before, struggled against all odds for the smallest chance at freedom, but each time, it had only made everything worse. He'd been beaten, chained, tortured, neglected, and the thought now of being left alone once again to hang in the bleak darkness of Azula's dungeon shot through him like ice, left him shaking where he stood. As Ozai set the cuffs on the table, Sokka's throat constricted and knotted over painful, self-hating tears.

Ozai turned back to him, standing by the table, peaceful and smiling at Sokka's good behavior.

"Good boy," he crooned ironically.

He returned to Sokka and laid his hand on the back of Sokka's neck, making Sokka tense up, his eyes burning with tears. Why couldn't he run? What was he doing? He was appalled with himself, astounded, angry. Ozai rubbed the back of his neck, like a massage, and Sokka stared at him, red-faced, nostrils flared, saying nothing, afraid to even blink.

"It's so much better this way," Ozai assured him, and Sokka felt the first tear slip traitorously from his eye. Ozai took his hand from his neck and reached for Sokka's uncast hand instead, pulling him gently from his rooted spot by walking backward, leading him toward the sofa. Sokka, once moved, followed mechanically, his vision warped and flooded.

When they reached the edge of the sofa, Ozai dropped Sokka's hand and merely stood for a long moment, peering down at him from his greater height. Sokka, stubbornly, stared straight ahead into Ozai's collarbone, unmoving. Finally, Ozai sat, saying nothing but watching Sokka's face all the while. Moments passed.

"Kneel," Ozai said at last, very plainly and undemanding.

Sokka blinked, finally allowing his tears to fall freely from his eyes. He couldn't comprehend how he had allowed himself to get into this situation. But after a moment, reluctantly as a rusted gear, he did as Ozai said, lowering himself to the floor with his hands on his thighs, his breath stalled in his lungs.

As Sokka came down, Ozai spread his knees to give him room to kneel and idly rubbed one hand over his groin, his erection tenting his robe now. Sokka clenched his fists and sat impassive, staring into the soft black fabric parted between Ozai's shins.

Ozai waited again before encouraging him with a gentle, "Come on."

Sokka swallowed, hands shaking, and miserably reached forward with his cast left hand, pinching the hem of Ozai's robe between his fingers and pulling it aside with as little involvement possible. The white of Ozai's bared thigh made Sokka shiver, but he continued, putting his right hand under the other half of Ozai's hem, not grasping it, but letting the fabric slip back over his knuckles, bunching up at his wrist, then lifting the panel away over Ozai's knee.

Sokka's arm brushed the bare skin of Ozai's leg, and he reactively moved to pull his hand back, but before he could, Ozai caught him around the wrist and held him in place. Sokka jumped and froze again, a new tear spilling from his eye. Ozai brought Sokka's hand slightly forward, directing him to where his erection now stood exposed, and held Sokka there gently until Sokka, of his own volition, gripped him in his fist. Ozai released him and leaned back, and Sokka scowled in misery.

He stared at his thumbnail, unable to proceed, the muscles of his neck jumping with bottled sobs. Ozai squirmed beneath his hand and took a long breath, urging him, "Go on."

Sokka sat shaking, battling every nerve in his body for the ability to get this over with. He leaned forward, nauseous, barely able to breathe, but in the end did as Ozai wanted, disgusted and horrified to the core of his bones, crying quietly even as he did so, choking and hiccupping, utterly tortured with self-hatred.

When Ozai had finished, Sokka pulled away, spitting violently onto the floor, his whole body trembling with distress. Even as Ozai rose to go to the washroom, Sokka sat shaking with barely-restrained sobs, face splotched red and streaked with tears. He felt so worthless, so appalled with himself. He knew now that he would never escape this. There was nothing left to take from him if he would not even run when he'd been freed of his chains.

His throat weakened, and he coughed, a high-pitched, barking whimper, and unable to maintain his silence any longer, he crawled forward on his elbows, away from the sofa, hunched down, and wept dejectedly into the floor. It didn't even matter anymore whether Ozai saw him like this, whether anyone heard him crying. He simply couldn't contain it anymore.

He cried and cried until he was virtually exhausted, his voice hard and broken. His sobs gradually disintegrated into heartbroken moans and whimpers, interrupted only by the shaking breaths jumping in his throat. Sinking, he became nothing but a loose heap of limbs piled in the middle of the room, his hands lying open like dead insects, his head hanging on the floor. When he'd finally settled and quieted again, lying in heavy, dejected silence, Ozai returned to the room, stopping in the doorway behind him and saying nothing.

Sokka was aware of his presence but would not turn to see him. He instead stared into the wavy reflections in the polished stone near his face, the lantern light flickering innocently, peaceful and somehow comforting in its simple obliviousness.

"I'm glad you're cooperating," Ozai said from the door, his tone steady and not unkind. "This was never meant to be difficult."

Sokka's throat tightened, his anger and indignation flaring at Ozai's calmness. He was right: this was never supposed to have been this difficult. Sokka had been prepared, on some level, to become a prisoner of war. But this— _this_ —he had not anticipated, could not have prepared for.

After another moment, Ozai asked, "Would you like me to let you be for the night?"

Sokka turned his face toward the floor, closing his eyes in irritation. Of _course_ he wanted to leave, but he wouldn't grant Ozai the satisfaction of a response. Ozai didn't move from the door.

"There's no shame in submitting to a superior enemy," he said, as if in some attempt at comfort. "It shows you've learned respect, acknowledged your place in the hierarchy. One will always be superior to another. That's the proper order of things. In life, in war. In here." Sokka's stomach clenched in sick anger. Ozai paused. "That's how it should be. That's why this war is already won."

Sokka opened his eyes, his patience worn through. He wrinkled his brow and broke his silence, his voice hoarse. "You haven't won."

Ozai hummed, seeming glad to have gotten Sokka speaking. "Well," he said, "maybe not yet. But the Fire Nation controls most of the world now, and the Avatar is in hiding, weaker than ever. His supporters are overrun, and his team is falling apart, right before my very eyes. Right here on my floor."

Sokka scowled in fury, glaring hatefully into the floor. Taking a breath, he pushed himself up, sitting with his back to Ozai. He wouldn't lie dejectedly on the floor for Ozai's amusement.

"You must see it," Ozai reasoned. "You are the first petal fallen from the dying flower. Every day, we come one step closer to the end—the Avatar's demise and my ultimate victory. At this stage, it will take little more than a wave of my hand to finally see his end."

Sokka felt the blood rushing to his head, pushed to anger far beyond caution or care. "It won't be that easy," he said. "When Aang comes for you, he's going to be more powerful than you could ever _imagine_ being." Gruesome images came into his mind of the most violent ways Ozai might be murdered. He relished the thought of seeing Ozai dead and gutted on the floor. "You won't even have a chance to _move_ before he kills you where you stand."

Ozai laughed at him.

"Oh, I doubt that," he said. "You seem to be forgetting one thing." His voice turned slick, and Sokka could virtually hear the grin on his lips: "You do intend to put an end to this before Sozin's Comet, don't you?"

Sokka's heart skipped a beat. He and the others had made a specific point of keeping their self-imposed deadline to themselves, trying to keep the Fire Nation from anticipating an attack. How could Ozai have known about it? Without even thinking, Sokka turned to look at him.

Ozai was leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, his arms folded over his bare chest, having changed into a deep red pair of pajama pants and nothing else. He was smiling; he knew he had just dropped a bomb.

"There simply isn't _time_ ," he said. "Any day now, your friends will have to rush in every bit as beaten and disorganized as they are at this exact moment. And even _without_ the hundredfold power the comet will give me, it will be an easy kill."

Sokka stared at him, not knowing what to say. Every word Ozai said slammed against him like a stark offense, driving home the bitter point that Ozai had always known what they were trying to do, that _nothing_ had been secret from him.

But Ozai's self-assured smugness got under his skin, and soon Sokka's fury was burning in his throat again, his heart pounding in his head. He _hated_ Ozai, this cruel, arrogant, malicious man, standing there mocking him as if he were some naive kidnapee holding on to some idiotic, unassailable faith in his rescue. He couldn't _stand_ to let Ozai win this round. He wanted so badly to tear down this grandiose fantasy.

But he knew that he had only one weapon left, and it was weak, at best. It wasn't enough; it wouldn't change anything. But he had to use it anyway.

"That's not going to happen," Sokka said slowly. Ozai looked at him with mild curiosity, readjusting his arms on his chest. Sokka knit his eyebrows, wanting his words to pull the earth right out from under Ozai's feet, but he knew that the one thing that would hurt Ozai most now was the one thing that hurt _Sokka_ most, too.

"They're _not_ coming before the comet," he said. "They're waiting, so that Aang can master the Avatar State."

Ozai's expression sobered slightly. There were tears in Sokka's eyes now, of hatred and dismay. He wanted to bore his gaze into Ozai, to let him know that there _was_ hope yet, that he _didn't_ have all of the pieces to the puzzle. But his chest felt as if it were collapsing. He turned away again, too upset and angry to keep looking at him, and put his fingers to his eyes, hatred turning to nauseous despair.

The comet would pass, so Ozai wouldn't be able to use it to overpower Aang. But that also meant that Ozai was safe for now, free to do as he pleased until then—and that Sokka would remain here, indefinitely.

Ozai made his way over to Sokka, his bare feet virtually silent on the tile, the rustle of his pant legs whispering softly as he crossed the room. His feet appeared at the corner of Sokka's vision, and Ozai crouched beside him.

The Fire Lord raked his hand forward through Sokka's hair, combing it back over Sokka's forehead and turning his face up to look at him. Sokka's throat was tight and his eyes wet, but he looked at Ozai stoically, full of defiance and pain. Ozai stared at him, his eyes rounded with new intensity, searching his face.

"Is that true?" he asked.

Sokka scowled and flared his nostrils, killing and suppressing a wave of pain, but that was confirmation enough. Ozai removed his hand from Sokka's head, sitting back on his heels and resting his arms on his knees, seeming to process this revelation. Sokka turned his eyes back to the floor, seething. They sat in silence for a while.

Then, without warning, Ozai grabbed him by the elbow and hefted him up to his feet. Sokka was startled, but a single look at Ozai's face made the man's intentions clear: again. Sokka's mouth, Ozai's pleasure.

Sokka's heart sank. Ozai hooked him by the back of the neck, turned, and pulled him toward the sofa. Sokka moaned, grabbing onto Ozai's arm, a knot already aching in this throat. Why this all of a sudden? What had he missed?

Ozai shoved him toward the sofa, and Sokka stumbled onto it, knees hitting the cushions, catching himself by the backrest. He was so sick with dread already that he could barely move. He turned slowly back around, and Ozai stood before him, unhurriedly undoing the knot of his own drawstring, the bulge of his erection rising.

Sokka shifted away on the seat, shaking and shuddering with impotent fury, new tears coming into in his eyes. He sat wretchedly on one foot, but Ozai unexpectedly abandoned his drawstring and pushed Sokka backward by the shoulder, knocking him down, then slid one hand up Sokka's shirt.

Sokka jerked away, startled, pulling back onto one elbow and staring at Ozai wide-eyed. Ozai knelt over him, hovering in indecision, his hand on Sokka's hip. They locked eyes together in silence, and in the span of a heartbeat, Sokka's mind shifted from confusion to recognition of Ozai's true intention. Then, the moment broke, and Ozai shoved him down onto the cushion, taking his face in his hands and kissing him hard. With the force of a beam breaking, Sokka registered the real danger he was in and made a noise of panic into Ozai's mouth. He tried to break away from the kiss, but Ozai forced him down harder.

Sokka gathered his strength again and shoved against Ozai with all his might, tearing his face free and squeezing sideways out from under him, falling clumsily onto the floor. He scrambled up and broke for the door...and made it a total of three complete steps before Ozai arced a fire whip overhead and brought it cracking down in front of Sokka, making him yelp and jump back, shaking.

"Stop," Ozai said.

Sokka stood there trembling, staring at the wisp of smoke fading into the air ahead of him, and knew he was at an unfair disadvantage. Ozai was one of the most powerful firebenders in the world. And Sokka was an unarmed teenage boy with a broken hand. Besides which, Ozai was much bigger than he was, and much stronger. He physically—easily—overpowered him. Sokka was frozen with the despair of this realization when Ozai grabbed him from behind, vice-gripping his arm.

Sokka shouted, wrestling to break loose, but was only flung around and knocked to his knees. As he tugged back against Ozai's grip, Ozai reached back with his other arm and brought his fist flying forward into Sokka's face, slamming against his cheekbone, sending him reeling backward to the floor.

Sokka rolled dumbly, mouth gaping, his hand over his eye, blinded by the impact, and Ozai dropped to his knees on top of him, straddling one of Sokka's legs, his hands at Sokka's waistband, untying and loosening the drawstring. Sokka protested, blindly kicking, knocking Ozai's hands away and pushing himself back from him, turning onto his stomach and clambering to get back up as his vision slowly edged back into focus. But Ozai caught him by the ankle and pulled him back, knocking him to the floor again. "No," Sokka cried, fingers dragging along the tile, and Ozai took a fistful of Sokka's hair and pulled him back up to his feet.

Sokka stumbled, wincing and gripping Ozai's arm, terrified. His pants now dangled from his hips, sagging at his feet so that he was walking on the hems. He managed to right himself just long enough to throw one good punch, landing it solidly in Ozai's ribs. Ozai barked, flinching away and losing his grip on Sokka's hair, but he retaliated by manhandling Sokka toward the bedroom door and throwing him like a sack against a stone wall.

Sokka shouted, careening forward off balance, and tried to shield himself with his arms, but the speed of the impact was too much. His elbow hit first, and then his head, cracking hard against the stone. His shoulder and the rest of his body followed, slammed with momentum, jarring all the bones of his skeleton. He crumpled to the floor, ringing with the collision, debilitated by a shock of pain that turned all his muscles to putty. He tried pointlessly to press his hands against the wall and lift himself back up, but before he could recover, Ozai slung one arm around his chest and carried him into the bedroom, half-limp under his arm, feet dragging.

Ozai heaved him up onto the bed, pulled the slippers from his feet, and yanked his pants from him. Sokka cried, struggling, but was too dazed to coordinate himself. Ozai climbed up onto the bed with him and wrestled him out of his shirt, flinging the garment aside and shoving Sokka back onto the bed cover, naked now except for his bandages.

Ozai wedged his knees between Sokka's thighs, and Sokka flailed, wild-eyed, hitting him and trying to scoot away. But Ozai leaned a powerful hand down onto his chest and hit him across the face again, knocking his head aside, drawing a trickle of blood from his nose which dripped sideways across his face.

Sokka was stunned by the hit, immobile, and in the momentary stillness, Ozai reared up and freed himself from his own pants, tugging the waistband down just to his thighs, then took Sokka's wrists in his hands and lay down over him, pinning his arms above his head.

Sokka became vocal and desperate, wriggling fruitlessly under Ozai's weight. Ozai readjusted himself between Sokka's legs, working into position, and Sokka cried and fought against him right up until the moment Ozai forced his way inside him.

The surprise of pain was so intense that Sokka could do nothing but cry out sharply, shocked and paralyzed. It cleared his mind of all else, wiping his consciousness and wracking his body. His throat rattled with an incoherent wail. It _was_ surprising, how painful it was, a violent crowding, pushing, jolting, and abrading which tore at him and shot through him like a knife, back toward his spine, up toward his intestines. He gasped, choking on his own voice, delirious with agony.

Sokka had only barely comprehended the initial invasion when Ozai settled into a rhythm, rocking inside him with careless satisfaction. But then one of the hands gripping Sokka's wrists darted to grip him by the throat instead, and it startled him, making him gasp. But as the fist tightened down over his trachea, he cried out in protest, and the sound was pinched into a rasping screech, then silence.

Sokka watched in disbelief as Ozai wrapped both hands around his neck and propped himself up to strangle him, seeming driven by little more than mild curiosity. Sokka's mouth gaped as he clawed wide-eyed at Ozai's hands, blood and panic filling his head. He was unable to suck even a sliver of air through his throat. And once Ozai had accomplished that, the man seemed content and turned his attention back away from Sokka's struggles, bowing his head and rocking his hips against him with disregard, yet without losing his grip.

Sokka cried in breathless silence, craning his crushed neck and digging his fingernails into his own skin as he tried to pry Ozai's fingers loose, straining his lungs with all his might, but to no effect. He couldn't breathe, and in time, it made the world feel surreally silent. The image of Ozai's contorted face, the gleam of the man's sweat, seemed somehow not connected to his panting or grunting or the shuffing of the bed. Blackness crept in on the edges of Sokka's vision, and he felt his body becoming helpless and unbalanced, his hands sloppier, his struggles less clear. He was nothing but a body pressed beneath Ozai's and jostled on the mattress, muddled with pain and terror and suffocation. He was losing consciousness, going insane.

But then, the buffeting pain plowing through him warped under the influence of a different sensation, something foreign and unwelcome, and he became aware of a mounting pressure between his legs. A tidal wave rushed through him, ejecting from him, and hot, thick liquid fell onto his stomach. His back arched.

It was then that Ozai let him go. Air rushed back into his body, screaming down his throat and blinding him with oxygen. He gasped for breath and shrieked in agony, the sudden release like an onslaught, making him lose control, his body convulsing in death-like climax, semen squirting from him. He reeled on his back, pulling at the sheets above his head as if trying to get away from the intensity. But Ozai gripped his thighs, holding him close, not finished, driving electricity into him against his will. Sokka spasmed and twitched, the intense pain of penetration fusing with this violating intoxication, destroying his grip on reality. He felt as if nothing else existed, only this raw, frightening sensation, overwhelming and mind-destroying.

When at last Ozai released him and pulled away, Sokka writhed on the bed cover, pushing his heels against the mattress and wheezing at the ceiling, abandoned. Blood streaked from his nose across his cheek, and there was phlegm in his throat. He moaned hoarsely, a long, drawn-out sob, curling in on himself, his entire body throbbing with pain. He felt the wetness of tears now, smeared across his face and down his neck, though he hadn't been aware of crying.

After a few moments, Ozai threw his pants back to him, the light fabric draping over his trembling legs, and in a straightforward tone, he told Sokka to get dressed and he would have the guards come bring him back to his cell.


	4. Losing Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka's trauma becomes so much that he increasingly dissociates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains intense non-consensual sex acts, physical violence, and psychological trauma.

Once the firestorm of violence had burned down into the ember of aftermath, all that remained in the bedroom of Ozai's chambers was a naked body shaking on the bed and an impassive overlord shrugging on a robe.

Sokka rolled aside, hoarse and crying, his own semen sliding in warm streaks across his stomach. Blood still ran from his nose, dripping onto the bed cover. Unprocessed trauma roared around him like a thunderstorm, but all Sokka could really comprehend was that he'd been hurt—badly. Beaten as he'd never been before, slammed against a stone wall, skull ringing, body limp, forced down, strangled, and raped. Ravaged.

Bruises blossomed across his body from the bony corners of his shoulders to the soft meat of his thighs. The pain at his backside remained fresh and violating, even absent the weapon that caused it, the sharp details cold in his psyche—Ozai's engorged penis enveloped inside him like a hot poker.

His neck and throat were crushed, his voice breaking apart like gravel.

The pants Ozai had thrown to him were now caught between his feet, and Sokka pulled them to his chest like a pathetic security blanket. His body protested with pain even from such a small movement.

Somewhere out in the room, Sokka heard Ozai ring for the guards, and even in this state of shock he knew he didn't want to be found like this—not naked, not on the bed, not so broken.

So, whimpering like an injured animal, he pulled himself to the edge of the bed and fumbled to the floor, more falling than standing, dragging his pants behind him.

He stayed bent, leaning one shoulder against the bed to keep himself upright, crying still and struggling to get his feet into his pants. Once he'd managed that, he stiffly made himself stand, pulling his drawstrings tight around his waist. Ozai was not even paying attention to him now; he had slipped on his black satin house robe and gone to the far window lighting a pipe.

Sokka hobbled out into the room, halting and unsteady as an old man with palsy, going to where his shirt lay discarded on the floor. He nearly tipped over stooping to pick it up, but he steadied himself again, reached down half-hunched, and hooked the edge of the shirt with his fingertips. As he pulled himself back up, an incredible headache swelled in his head.

Slowly he untangled the shirt and put his forearms into the sleeves...but he couldn't lift his arms to bring the tunic over his head. He was going to vomit. So he just stood there, sagging and tender on his bones, bare shoulders and bandages exposed to the air, blood flowing from his nose and down over his lips.

After a moment, he took the collar between his fingers and pinched the cloth over his nostrils like a handkerchief. It was the most normal thing he could do—self-attentive, grounding. He wanted to go home.

As the moments passed, Sokka in a numb and motionless haze, neither he nor Ozai acknowledged the other. Soon there was a knock at the door, and a pair of guards stepped in.

The guards hesitated, apparently pausing to identify the situation, but once they had, they dutifully went to Sokka without saying a word. Sokka wanted to leave just as he was, but the guards thought he'd better put on his shirt.

Sokka didn't want to move, but he reluctantly let go of his nose, and one of the guards aided his arms overhead, tugging the tunic down for him to his hips. The blood on the collar left a cool, wet patch on Sokka's neck.

At that, the guards led him out into the hallway, Sokka barefoot and not caring. No one made a move to retrieve the handcuffs still lying open on Ozai's table.

By the time they made it back to Sokka's cell, Sokka was barely able to keep walking, and his nose was plugged with blood. He leaned against the wall to take the weight off his feet, waiting for the guards to leave. He had a throbbing headache.

As soon as the men were out of sight, Sokka lowered himself to his bed mat. Tears were coming back to him now. He hurt everywhere. His muscles resisted supporting his weight because any tension he held in them pushed against some injury.

By now his backside was cripplingly sore and raw, having walked all the way back from Ozai's chambers aggravating the injury. The shooting pain would have brought him to his knees had he not been so dead set on getting away; but now, finally alone and safe, he could collapse into some kind of relief.

He sunk onto his bed mat, whining aloud at the pain.

"Safe" wasn't the right word, but "alone" would suffice.

He needed to check. He was uncomfortably wet between his legs, and he worried he might be bleeding badly.

He let go of the wall, eyes red and swollen, and untied the drawstring of his pants.

Pulling the waistband down to his knees, it was a relief to see that the seat of his pants was not the dark bloodstain he'd been imagining. In fact, there was no blood at all that he could see.

He moved to touch himself, but it occurred to him his fingers were already bloody from trying to stop his nosebleed, so he feebly crawled to his water basin and clumsily with his cast left hand ladled water over his right, directly onto the floor.

He dried his hand on the side of his tunic, wiped his tears with the back of his arm, then reached behind him. Even barely touching it, it hurt, and he hissed, hot and raw. When he looked at his fingertips, they were smeared with a clear, watery mucous, partly struck through with vibrant ribbons of red.

He sucked in breath, shivering and putting an arm over his eyes to collect himself. The wetness was apparently more Ozai's than his. Yes, he was bleeding—but not so much that he was in danger from it.

He sat motionless for a moment, face in his elbow, feeling his heart beat, feeling his throat tighten. He cried. He settled.

He wanted to clean up. He pulled off his shirt, still sticky with blood, and wetted a clean corner of the hem in his water basin and used this to wipe away what mucous, blood, and sweat he could.

It was unlikely the doctor would come to check on him, he thought. Every time before now no one had seemed to report Sokka's condition to him after meeting with Ozai. Sokka remembered the surprise the doctor had shown the first morning when Sokka's eyes were inflamed from having been burned. There was no reason to expect anyone would report this, either. Maybe it never even occurred to anyone he might actually be injured.

And feeling angry now, he tossed his rag of a shirt over the puddle of dirty water by his basin. How irresponsible and cruel it was to release a prisoner into the dragon's lair and then afterward lock the prisoner in the dungeon without even an eye nearby to see that he stayed alive.

But then Sokka remembered to keep things in perspective. He wasn't a patient in a hospital; he was the captive of a violent war criminal. He was lucky he wasn't simply beaten and raped and thrown in a trash pile to die.

And at that, a fit of weeping rushed up into his face again.

He pulled his pants back up over his hips and pulled the drawstring tight but couldn't fumble through his watered vision and cumbersome cast enough to tie it, so he gave up bitterly, wiping his cheek on his shoulder.

As he did so, a sharp pain shot through his neck, and he snapped his head back quickly, grimacing. He touched his neck. He could feel the welts in his skin where Ozai's fingers had dug into him. Pressing on them even a little now hurt him badly—not just in his skin but clear down through his throat.

All this time it had been painful and knotted with tears, but now it occurred to him there might be more to it, an actual injury. He swallowed experimentally, and it was painful and difficult. The ache seemed more now like a hard, persistent inflammation.

Ozai had crushed his trachea. He craned his neck a little to see if it would help, but all he did was find new positions to make it hurt worse. Quickly deciding it would be best not to bother it, he straightened his head and just sat still, paying attention to how he breathed. Air seemed to be coming to him more slowly

His heart ticked a beat faster, and he put a hand at his throat nervously. He wasn't sure whether this was his imagination—a byproduct of emotional overload—or whether there was something physically wrong with him.

But after a while, it seemed simply allowing his body to breathe on its own was no longer meeting his needs. His lungs were getting impatient, and he found he couldn't resist the urge to pull in breath consciously.

When a faint whistle began in his throat, he took hold of a bar with a stomach-dropping panic. His throat was swelling closed.

"Hello?" he called, his voice weak and raspy, hoping against hope there would be someone stationed in the hallway. But he knew before he'd even spoken the word there was no one there. Cold, helpless loneliness crystallized in his gut. He was scared.

He wanted someone, he wanted the doctor, he wanted his mom in a way he hadn't since he was five. Tears collected on his eyelids, and the whistle grew in his throat. He was going to die.

He gripped the iron hard in his hand, knuckles turning white, holding himself upright with a sheer will to live. He was wheezing now, lungs burning for breath, and he was afraid to move. He felt like if he let go of the bar, if he even loosened his grip, he would drown.

Minutes passed, his heart staccato and eyes wide, staring at an empty hallway wall barely out of reach and yet a world away. He was trapped in this silent cage in the basement where no one would find him until morning.

Shortly his breath stopped coming.

He rose up onto his knees, gaping, struggling to find a way to get air back into him. He opened his chest and sucked at the air with all his might, and finally a stream of oxygen tore through the barricade on a sickening sound, buzzing in his throat. He hardly collected half a breath, but it was all he could manage. His throat closed up again almost immediately, and dizzy with the effort, he fell backward to the floor.

He rolled onto his side and fumbled to push himself up on all fours, feeling gravity like an oppressive force, the world bent on killing him. His body was getting muffled, feeling heavy, suffocating. Propped on his elbows, staring at the floor, he felt the blackness creeping in on his vision. He wasn't going to make it. This was the end.

His arms going soft, his elbows buckling, he fell again, collapsing to the floor in a jumble with his face against the concrete. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't focus, and in a moment the world was swallowed up in a cloud of black.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A long time later, in a chilly silence, hungover as if after a late, chaotic raid, Sokka slowly pried his eyelids open, conscious, alive, and breathing again.

He had a stunning headache, his face cold and bruised against the floor, and he lifted his head just a little, foggy and disoriented. With a jolt he found his eyes was swollen and tender and objected to being disturbed.

He winced, and as consciousness gradually returned, he became awake to the various pains throughout the rest of his body. Everywhere, everywhere he was bruised and stiff. He could barely move his head for the hammering inside it. His arms were numb for how he'd collapsed on top of them. Groaning, he pushed himself to his hands and knees. He was very, very tired.

He didn't know what time it was, but it had to have been the middle of the night. Everything was still quiet, undisturbed, and dim. No doubt he'd woken because he was so cold. Lying with his bare skin against the concrete and no slippers on his feet did nothing to help him retain body heat.

He crawled painfully over to his bed mat, gingerly pulling the blanket over him and collapsing onto the cushion. He felt thoroughly used, as battered and empty as a wet cloth run through a wringer—still vulnerable, still raw, but far too exhausted to deal with it. He didn't want to think, didn't even want to cry. He just wanted oblivion.

And after a while, as he warmed up under his blanket, he got it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next time he woke, it was to the doctor and guard invading his cell.

The doctor was speaking to him before he was even awake, and Sokka, facing the wall, rolled back just enough to look deadly at him over his shoulder. The man was stooping to pick up the shirt Sokka had discarded by the water basin.

The doctor examined the bloodstains on it grimly then looked at Sokka.

"You certainly aren't making this easy, are you?" he said.

Sokka was hurt and offended by that. He glowered at him and pulled his blanket tighter around him, only reluctantly dragging himself to sit upright, still facing the wall. The guard, keeping her distance, deposited a fresh breakfast tray in the corner and then folded her arms, looking at Sokka with seeming concern. The doctor knelt beside him and pressed against Sokka's black eye without asking. Sokka flinched away.

"You look a horror," the man said.

Sokka lifted a hand to try to brush away the blood still crackled and crusted under his nose, but to little effect. Having the doctor's eyes on him felt like being under a microscope. Sokka felt uncomfortably aware of the film of grime and sweat coating his skin, wrapped up under his blanket.

The doctor, investigating, tugged the blanket aside from Sokka's neck with one finger.

"Look at this!" he said. "You've been strangled." He huffed and tossed the bloodied shirt aside, standing again, clearly irritated. "This is exactly the kind of thing they need to alert me of. _You_ ," he added, pointing at Sokka almost in accusation, "could have died overnight."

The doctor's satchel was sitting by the cell gate, and he went to it and dug out his stethoscope. He returned to Sokka, kneeling as if to listen to Sokka's heart, but Sokka backed away, glaring.

The doctor frowned at him, hand still poised waiting for permission to touch him, but Sokka wouldn't relent. Sighing, the doctor pulled the buds from his ears.

"Any difficulty breathing?" he asked in compromise.

Moodily, Sokka tried to speak. Sound wouldn't form. He tried again: "Not anymore," he said, his voice quiet and raspy.

The doctor only looked more irritated once confirmed. He tossed his stethoscope back into his satchel. "I can't be held responsible for their idiocy," he muttered.

He settled on his knees and leveled a sober gaze at Sokka. A moment passed.

"I imagine this is hardly the worst of it?" he said.

Sokka just stared down at the floor, biting the inside of his lip. A stony, emotionless numbness came over him.

The doctor seemed to take his silence as affirmation. He nodded. "Can you walk?" he asked.

And then tears welled up, as if on command. Sokka felt his face go hot and red. What was wrong with him? He felt as if he were made of boiling water, rolling and churning and unpredictable, sadness as easily as anger swelling to the surface without warning.

"Will you let me see?" asked the doctor.

"No," said Sokka, defying the man to press him further. Sokka clenched his jaw, looking at nothing, tears dammed stubbornly on his eyelids.

The doctor just sat and looked at him for a while.

"Well then, what do you want?" he asked eventually.

The water finally dripped from his eyes, and Sokka turned his face away, angry. "Leave me alone," he said.

The doctor reasoned with him frankly. "You at least need to get cleaned up," he said.

Sokka didn't move, but to the core of his soul he agreed. His nerves weren't strong enough to withstand staying in this residue.

Taking a breath and stoically blinking away tears, Sokka moved his jaw, seeming to want to say something but not knowing...how. He re-gathered the blanket around his shoulders, feeling the heat rising up again in his face. The doctor and the guard waited for him.

Finally he asked in a monotone, barely above a whisper, "Can I get my burns wet?"

The doctor huffed ironically. "I think that's the least of our concerns for now. Yes, they'll be fine," He said. "You can bathe. You're due to be un-bandaged anyway."

He stood.

"But we'll have to wrap your cast," he continued. "It would be a disaster to have it dissolve."

He offered a hand to help Sokka up, but Sokka didn't budge.

"Soaking in a bath will help," the doctor coaxed him.

After a moment, instead of taking the doctor's hand, Sokka loosened his grip on the blanket and used the wall to help himself slowly, painfully stand. The blanket fell to the floor, and now with bare chest and bandages visible, he suddenly felt very naked and didn't want to face them. Crusts of mucous spattered his skin, and he folded his arms across his stomach self-consciously.

"Do you need Min to help you walk?" asked the doctor.

Sokka looked at the guard, who was still standing by watching him, a soft expression on her face. Sokka just stood scowling, no.

Exasperated but controlling his patience, the doctor said, "Come on, then," picking up his satchel. "We'll go to the bath, and you can decide on the way whether you'll feel like cooperating."

They led him barefoot out of the basement and to a plain bathing suite not far away—presumably for use by the guards. The atrium to the bathing room itself was a long, wood-paneled locker room lined with benches.

The doctor gave the guard instructions for preparing the bath and then dismissed her, removing his scissors from his satchel.

"Will you be all right?" she asked him, apparently hesitant to leave him alone with an enemy.

The doctor turned to Sokka sardonically.

"Are you going to attack me?" he asked.

Sokka was standing feebly by the lockers, every inch of him weak and aching, and for some reason the question made him emotional. Not looking at either of them, he shook his head silently. The doctor, having made his point, sent the guard off with a toss of his head.

Once the guard was gone, the doctor went to Sokka and proceeded to cut away his bandages in silence.

Sokka behaved, keeping his arms out of the way without being told. As the doctor pulled away the adhesive from his side, Sokka's eyes watered. His jaw locked tight, his mind jeered at him: _Sex slave._

"Look how well you're healing," the doctor commented, gesturing to the long, uneven stripe down Sokka's side, pale pink and soft under the balm. "Don't scrub this new skin away. Try not to bother it. Let it keep healing."

The doctor wadded up the bandages, cast them in a wastebasket, and put away his scissors, seeming to take his time.

"While Min is gone, will you let me have a look?" he asked.

Sokka, frozen as stone, shook his head.

The doctor sighed quietly but said nothing. He retrieved a towel for Sokka, and Sokka covered himself with it before stepping out of his pants. It was obvious for how he hobbled—obvious for how he'd limped all the way here—that he was in pain, but the doctor didn't press him again to be examined.

The doctor produced a leather pouch from his bag, something like a wineskin, and threaded a strip of gauze through the top of it to use as a drawstring. He slipped the pouch over Sokka's cast and tied the string closed around Sokka's forearm. This would keep water from soaking through to the cast, but it limited the dexterity of Sokka's left hand. It wasn't unlike wearing a mitten.

As the doctor closed up his satchel, the guard returned from her errand with a small wooden bucket carrying a bar of soap and a hand towel. She handed it to Sokka.

"I prepared one of the single tubs for you," she said, "at the end of the room."

"Thanks," Sokka said numbly.

The doctor excused himself, saying he would return in a while, but the guard remained posted in the locker room to prevent Sokka from escaping. She confirmed that he could take as long as he liked since no one else would need the baths until later in the evening, and with that, Sokka was permitted to go into the bathing area alone.

Around a corner passageway and out of sight of the locker room, the bathing area itself was a long, tiled chamber lined on one side with large community baths and on the other with a row of faucets. Each faucet was about knee height from the floor and had a short wooden stool standing before it. At the back of the chamber, beneath a large mosaic of a smoking volcano, stood a row of individual wooden tubs. Each was capped with a bamboo cover, save for one, whose cover had been rolled back. Steam drifted faintly in the air above it.

Sokka padded out to the far end of the chamber and set his bucket down beneath a faucet. He considered for a moment trying to sit on the stool, but the prospect seemed too painful and awkward, so instead he folded his towel and lay it down on the tile so that he could kneel on it like a cushion.

Above each faucet hung a small mirror, and once he'd knelt, Sokka was able for the first time in a long time to look at himself.

He was the picture of assault. A thick, crusted smear of crackled blood coated his upper lip and spread from his nose and across his right cheek. His left eye was swollen partly shut and ringed with deep splotched purple. The whites of his eyes were bloodied in the corners, and there were circles under his eyes as dark as if someone had smudged soot there. He lifted his chin to look at his neck, and it was mottled with bruises like dappled tree bark. His skin was ashen, his face sunken. He looked like death.

A voice in the back of his mind reminded him: _Sex slave._

He soaked himself and took up the soap, only able to work one-handed, then lathered his hair till it was thick with foam. He sat a while using the suds to massage his battered face and pick the blood from his skin. The soap turned brownish red on his hand, and he rinsed it all down the drain with the solemnity of a cleansing ritual.

It was difficult to work around his cast; it made the whole process slow and methodical—and as such, Sokka was prone to getting lost in thought. Running the bar of soap over his skin, he couldn't stop thinking: it was going to happen again—the physical invasion, the violation. Maybe not as violent, maybe not as impulsive, but definitely again. And again. That was his sole purpose here—a bodily recreation—and now the precedent had been set. His hands shook as he rinsed himself.

To clean between his legs, he delicately parted his knees on the towel—glad for the cushion, because he couldn't have stood the pain of kneeling without it—and from his bucket he carefully cupped water toward himself with the same sort of care he would give to dressing a wound. Old blood and mucous dropped down from him to the floor.

It hurt to touch himself. And that made him all the more aware that not only was it going to happen again, but it was going to hurt, badly. Especially now. Especially like this.

Tears seeped from his eyes as he worked, as unassuming as the water itself, emotions he couldn't even identify roiling inside him.

At last he poured a final bucket over his head, rinsing everything away, letting the water splash and cascade off him. And when the bucket was empty, he sat there alone in this great chamber, dripping and numb.

Gazing back at him now, his reflection was swollen and dead-eyed, but now that he was clean, he looked much more like himself. His dark hair was plastered to the edges of his face.

The swelling made his left eye something of a narrow slit, and that, coupled with the darkness of his bruising, suddenly struck him as very familiar. Mauled and misshapen, the look produced an effect very similar to the scar on Zuko's face.

Sokka sat there disturbed and staring, startled by the similarity. The mirror reversed the image, of course, but knowing where the wound was on his own body, Sokka realized his was even on the same side as Zuko's. Seeing Zuko reflected here put him profoundly ill at ease. It was a kind of familiarity that felt wildly out of place, totally incongruent with reality. Then, with a sick feeling of gloom, Sokka realized the same man who had done this to him had done that to Zuko as well.

He looked away. There was something deeply, deeply sad and morbid about that realization, like nothing he'd ever felt before, never in his life. It kicked up a depression so profound he couldn't even physically bear to sit in its presence. Almost shaky, needing to get away, he pushed himself up and limped over to the tub the guard had prepared for him.

The tub stood nearly to his shoulders, shaped almost like a barrel, and wooden steps led him up over the lip and down into the seat. He stepped down delicately into the steaming water, hissing as the heat made contact with his cuts and burns, but he settled himself slowly and soon adjusted. The water was deep, and he sank down to his shoulders, one elbow hooked over the edge of the tub to keep his cast dry.

Soaking here was like soaking in a salve. The water was soft and light on his skin, and submerged as he was—floating and easy and weightless in the quiet—he felt safe, like being cradled. Gradually, tension drained from his limbs, and he leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

He was grateful for relaxation to take his body, but he couldn't say the same for his mind. Though many parts of him wanted to avoid it, his reasoning side knew needed to process last night.

And one thing in particular was troubling him most: _Why_ had Ozai reacted the way he did?

In an apathetically rational way, Sokka could understand the point of keeping a prisoner for sexual gratification—even political gratification. There was a logic there he could follow.

What he _couldn't_ understand was how that gratification had morphed so suddenly into...celebration.

"You haven't won," Sokka had said. "They're not coming."

To Sokka, telling Ozai the others were biding their time had been a threat. He knew as well as Ozai did that if they did come now they'd be defeated. Aang simply wasn't ready yet, and neither was their broken army. Waiting for the comet to pass was their only path to victory. After all, with Ba Sing Se already fallen to the Fire Nation, there was no other purpose Ozai could turn the comet's power toward but to attack Aang himself. So depriving him of that opportunity was the most powerful blow they could deal him right now. And when they finally did return, Ozai would not be more powerful for the comet, whereas Aang would have mastered the Avatar State.

Sokka knew Ozai wasn't a fool, so it seemed this intention should have been obvious to him. But Sokka supposed it was possible that even despite his intentions Ozai could have mistaken this strategy for retreat.

But even if that were the case, it didn't explain Ozai's shift from posturing to jubilation. A retreat, after all, wasn't the same as surrender.

So what was it, then? Sokka was sure he'd said nothing that could have spelled out Ozai's victory—not least of all because Sokka himself had been totally confident the others would come through. But Ozai obviously thought otherwise. Because mere political gratification couldn't explain that kind of enthusiasm...the force, the arousal, the vice-like kiss...beating Sokka into submission, dragging him to the bed, tearing his clothes away, pinning him down...

Without meaning to, a sob erupted from Sokka's chest, and he covered his eyes with his elbow, weeping out loud. Like a tangled fishing line jamming in a reel, his thoughts were getting snagged on painful memories, keeping him from thinking.

He was missing something important, he knew, but he couldn't figure out what it was. Already he was too close to the fire; he couldn't push through the trauma.

So rather than an answer, all he was left with was a sick feeling of lurking danger and a secret suspicion that he was to blame.

He sat and sobbed into the crook of his elbow, done trying to analyze anything.

Never tell Ozai _anything_ ; that was the lesson to be learned here. Ozai was not Azula—not so young, not so easy to manipulate, and Ozai could hurt Sokka far worse than Azula could.

Sokka let himself cry a while, just to feel the catharsis of it, letting the anguish rise up out of him like steam from the bath. He let it pull his misery out of him until there was nothing left to take, and then he finally settled into a post-climactic sort of exhaustion, sinking into the tub and dropping his cast arm back over the edge, leaving his body to be suspended in the water. His eyes were shut, his head resting back, and he fell asleep there, as if returning to the womb.

Eventually he was roused by a tapping near his head. He started and blinked awake, and there standing over him was the doctor, knocking on the side of the tub.

"Time to get out," the doctor said.

Sokka took a moment to wake up then pulled himself to life and wrapped himself in the fresh towel the doctor gave him, letting the doctor hold his arm to steady Sokka and guide him back down the steps to the floor. Sokka felt lethargic now but far less sore. The bath had helped, and his body was warmed and relaxed to the core.

In the locker room, the guard was waiting for them. She presented Sokka with a fresh set of clothes then stepped out so he could get dressed. These were softer than what he'd been given before, satiny and black and stitched with gold thread. The doctor said he no longer needed to wear bandages, so Sokka wore the clothes directly against his skin, and they were cool and luxuriant and comfortable.

But he sensed somehow he was being dressed for someone else's sake, and as such, he found it hard to enjoy the improvement.

When they arrived back at his cell, there was a fresh blanket folded for him on his bed mat and the floor gleamed from a recent mopping. Fresh, clean water filled his basin, and his breakfast was still laid out on a tray for him.

Sokka ignored this and went directly to his bed, curling up into the cool folds of his blanket. The doctor set a vial of clear liquid on his tray.

"Take this when you're in pain," he said, then folded his arms plainly. "I won't give you more without getting to examine you."

Sokka didn't care. He just wanted to lie here alone and not move. He turned his face into his pillow, and the doctor and guard left him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was well into the afternoon when Sokka was disrupted out of sleep by a nagging pain. Grimacing, he awoke, and the whole length of his body felt as if he had fallen down a flight of stairs.

Annoyed and depressed, he pulled himself over to his food tray and downed the vial of medicine. It was a thin liquid, bitter and sweet. Shortly the medicine took hold of him, relaxing his pain and his tension and making him feel drowsy. He couldn't have kept his eyes open even if he'd wanted to. He lazily crawled back to his bed and slumped down onto the pillow, not even lying fully on the mat. Eyes closed, he reached for his blanket and pulled it partly over him, hardly effective, but to do more was too much effort. He fell asleep.

Later, footsteps startled him, and he was yanked awake like being exhumed from a grave.

A guard stepped into view carrying Sokka's dinner tray. The man took away his breakfast untouched, slid the new tray in through the grate, then left without so much as a nod of acknowledgment.

Sokka stared at the tray, registering the time. Evening. It was going to happen again. Ozai was going to hurt him.

Already he was tense, humming with fear and anxiety. The prospect of going back to Ozai now seemed impossible, literally intolerable. In no time, he felt like he was going to be sick. He moved onto his hands and knees, just to calm himself.

Maybe not tonight, he thought. Maybe Ozai was away on business. Maybe he would have mercy on Sokka and leave him alone, just for one night.

Sokka stayed in this state for a long time, walking toward the edge of crippling panic and continually trying to bring himself back, when he heard the door open at the end of the hall.

The sound was like a blow to the side of the head.

Sokka felt the blood immediately drain from his face and down through his gut like a wash of cold water. He started shaking. Within moments, a pair of guards stepped into view, and it all felt much too quick—they were at his cell door, telling him to get up, standing over him, extending a hand to him.

But Sokka couldn't get up. He sat with his head against the wall, unable to move, willing them to go away. One of the guards sighed. Obviously they would have preferred he go with them of his own power, but as he refused, they would have to force him.

They bent down and took hold of Sokka's upper arms, pulling him to his feet. Upon being moved, something in Sokka reacted violently. Horror shot through him like a curse, and he gaped in confusion, knowing something was very wrong but not knowing what.

His vision dimmed and went blurry, and his body stopped responding clearly. He felt himself go slack in the guards' grips. Something about the world felt unreal, like he was someplace else entirely, and his skin went cold. His mind rang with a piercing metal clanging, and beyond a doubt, he felt he was going to die—here, now.

The guards brought him out into the hallway before his cell, and Sokka tried to speak, to call for a stop, but all he could manage was a strangled moan. Their momentum made him sick, his skin prickling with terror, and he felt as if there were a lightning bolt in the room coming to kill him.

Barely standing, feet dragging between the two men, Sokka heaved forward and vomited onto the hallway floor.

One of the guards released him, stepping away in surprise and disgust, and Sokka fell against the other, colliding with him as the man pulled them both away from the feeble splatter. The guard tightened his grip on Sokka's arm, saying, "Steady," and Sokka bent double, bracing his free hand on his knee, trembling and gagging.

Sokka's mind—his whole body—had gone for a moment back to that dungeon in Azula's base, sobbing and emaciated, naked and broken, strapped into a pair of ankle restraints and waiting to be executed. Here in front of his cell, he retched again, spitting onto the floor. It was some seconds before he felt returned to the real world.

The guard who had released him asked from across the hallway, "You all right?"

Sokka didn't respond.

The guard still gripping his arm tugged him up. "Come on, you're all right."

"Give him a second," the other guard said. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to Sokka. Sokka dazedly wiped his mouth.

Once Sokka had handed the handkerchief back, the guard at his arm asked, "You ready?"

A tide of tears tightened Sokka's throat, and he said weakly, "I don't want to go."

Silence fell for a moment, then the guard at his arm said, "That's not our call to make." He nudged Sokka gently forward. "Come on."

They stepped around the mess on the floor, and the other guard regained Sokka's arm. Sokka, going numb for having no better option, allowed himself to be led out of the basement, light-headed and hurting.

The route they took was different from the ones Sokka had taken before, and when they reached their destination, the guards guided Sokka into a stone room and quietly closed him inside.

The chamber was dim and cavernous, scented with mineral steam and amber incense. In the center was a luxuriant hot pool, ringed with candles in glass vases and flanked on each corner by a thick stone pillar. Frosted glass lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting delicate, atmospheric light. To one side was a fireplace, the flames dying down into a gentle smolder; at the other was an arrangement of black sofas and small tables, presumably for hosting intimate guests. Directly across from Sokka, through the steam of the bath, was a wall of arched doorways, their wooden screens slid aside to offer a glimpse of the star-sprayed night beyond.

He was alone. Hesitantly, he made his way around the edge of the pool and inched toward the nearest doorway, looking cautiously out.

Outside was a shallow balcony overlooking a lush, tree-covered slope, and no one was there. He stepped out into the night air and stood under the sky. Sparse and far away on the very edges of the landscape, the buildings of the Fire Nation capital twinkled in the dark. This, he supposed, was the rear of the palace, overlooking a private stretch of forest.

He stepped forward the short distance to touch the balcony railing and stood looking out into the strange and isolated night. He could hear the movement of air in the trees, could smell the damp earth below, could feel the humid breath of summer on his face.

Everything about this place was beautiful.

Having nature looking back at him without judgment or motive as he stood there wearing his vulnerability on his skin was mysteriously comforting. He felt a sort of primal camaraderie with the mountains and trees, like a long-lost child being welcomed back home.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" a voice said behind him.

Sokka jumped and turned around. Through a doorway, lounging in his robe on a sofa near the fireplace, was Ozai, holding a cup of wine. Sokka's face flushed. How could he have missed him there before?

Ozai set his cup on the floor and rose, coming out onto the balcony with Sokka. Sokka retreated a few steps and turned away as Ozai neared him, but Ozai slipped his hand under Sokka's arm and gently held him around the waist, like a bride. Sokka just stared dimly in the opposite direction, his entire will drained of hope and resistance.

Ozai brushed Sokka's hair back from his face and nuzzled his nose in Sokka's temple. The scratch of Ozai's long goatee made Sokka shiver, disturbed. Ozai was so much older than he was, a middle-aged man with large hands and tough skin, hair on his arms like Sokka's father's. He towered over Sokka, almost encasing him, hard muscles pressing against and mocking Sokka's barely sixteen-year-old body.

Ozai touched the bruises on Sokka's neck, inspecting him.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he said quietly.

Sokka was immovable, watching the individual leaves of trees rustle in the dark.

Ozai moved his hand across Sokka's chest, dipping into the space between Sokka's pectorals. Sokka flinched to have his burn pressed on, and Ozai retracted his hand as if apologizing. But then he moved his hand to the hem of Sokka's shirt and reached up under it, tracing his fingertips back up the ridges of Sokka's abdomen.

Sokka hummed with tension as Ozai circled Sokka's nipple with his fingers, then Ozai bent and kissed Sokka's neck open-mouthed. Without even feigning to coax him, as if Sokka had asked him to do it, Ozai pulled Sokka's shirt over his head and freed him from it altogether.

Sokka couldn't form words, could barely force out a sound, but as his shirt hit the floor, even his breathing was a cry of protest. His body began to tremble and sweat with cold, nauseating anxiety. Ozai pulled him by the hip, turning Sokka to face him, and with a fluid, warm motion, he cupped his hand around the back of Sokka's head and kissed him.

Assaulted, Sokka crumbled into tears, stiffening helplessly in Ozai's arms. Even so, Ozai kept their lips pressed together.

When Ozai pulled away at last, he held Sokka's head between his hands, his face very close to Sokka's, and wiped tears from Sokka's cheeks with his thumbs. Wordlessly, he pulled Sokka back into the room by his head, watching him intently.

Standing at the edge of the pool, he released Sokka and conducted him toward the fireplace.

"Go on," he said.

Propelled only by momentum, adrift in a mist of tears, Sokka found himself stepping onto a large fur rug laid out before the fireplace. He turned to Ozai, begging him with his whole spirit not to take this further.

Ozai opened his robe and let the fabric slip from his shoulders, leaving him naked and eyeing Sokka with an unaffected lust. He went to him, posture slow and relaxed, and kissed Sokka again, pulling the small of Sokka's back into him and lowering him to the floor.

Sokka tried to make noise, to communicate. As he was swept backward, Ozai's lips pulled away for a moment from his, causing a sharp sucking sound just as Sokka's back made contact with the rug. Sokka gaped up at him, crying and trying to speak, but Ozai descended on him again, his tongue finding Sokka's open mouth and pressing into it to feel out whatever meat it could find.

Sokka moaned. Ozai shifted, kissing Sokka's neck and cheeks, and his hands dipped into Sokka's waistband, teasing it loose. Sokka gripped the fabric in his fists, trying to keep Ozai from pulling it down. "Don't," he begged, feeling trapped by the heat and flesh of the larger man.

"It's all right," Ozai said, taking Sokka's hands. "I'll be gentle," he said.

He pried Sokka's fingers open and took the waistband away, pulling Sokka's pants down past the curve of his backside.

"Don't," Sokka begged again, high-pitched and airy. He wanted Ozai at least to pause, just for a moment, so Sokka could try to reason with him. But Ozai wouldn't give him the chance.

Ozai peeled the pants free of Sokka's ankles then leaned over to reach for a bowl on a nearby table. He brought his hand back dripping with oil and slathered himself, pushing one of Sokka's knees aside to spread his legs.

Sokka cried, becoming vocal and desperate, and he reached for Ozai's hand, just to arrest his attention. But he'd no sooner touched Ozai's wrist than Ozai entwined Sokka's fingers with his own and leaned down over him, kissing the tears from Sokka's cheeks.

"Shh. It's all right," he said. "I'll be gentle."

And in truth, he _was_ gentle, pressing himself inside Sokka slowly, slick with oil, kissing Sokka's face all the while. But that didn't stop the weak screech of pain Sokka let out as soon as he did so.

Ozai moved delicately, pushing only partly in, pulling only partly back. There was no thrusting or plunging, only a mild motion—more fullness than friction. Still, it left Sokka writhing with pain, his face contorted and back arched, whimpering, shaking. Ozai cooed at him, combing Sokka's hair back, like a father trying to shush a baby. But Sokka never calmed; the pain never eased. And shortly, relenting, Ozai slid out of him, at last seeming to have taken pity on him. He rose up on one hand to take another handful of oil, then turned Sokka aside, pushing Sokka's knees together, and slipped in between Sokka's thighs instead.

Sokka let his head fall heavy to the floor and just cried in victimized relief, letting Ozai do as he pleased so long as it didn't have to hurt anymore. After a while, he settled into watery hiccups, waiting numbly for Ozai to finish. Ozai groaned and squeezed Sokka's knees so tightly together it hurt. Sokka winced, and Ozai shuddered, and Sokka was sure it would be done now.

But then, in a single burst of speed, Ozai flipped Sokka back onto his back, throwing his knees apart again, and before Sokka could even make sense of what was happening, Ozai plunged back inside him all at once, jolting him backward on the rug with the force.

Sokka screamed, and Ozai clapped a hand down over Sokka's mouth, thrusting into him with his head bent down beside Sokka's ear. Throat-rattling sobs muffled beneath Ozai's fingers, Sokka couldn't stop screaming. He slammed his heels into the floor, trying to push himself up, trying to get away, writhing like a live fish on a skewer.

Loudly, Ozai came, and he collapsed on top of Sokka trembling, hand still clamped like a vice over his mouth. His naked body was heavy and panting with Sokka weeping beneath him, and Sokka, still ringing with a pain beyond register, felt an idiotic, self-deprecating hate for having actually believed for a moment that Ozai wasn't going to hurt him again.

At last Ozai pulled himself up, leaving Sokka spread out bereft and immobile on the rug. He took a small hand towel from the table and went to the edge of the pool to wet it. Ozai wiped himself clean, and Sokka, even from his cloud of agony on the floor, could see the red smear of blood that came away on the fabric.

For Sokka, there was no getting up. He could hardly even move. Injuries from last night had only been torn open again and made worse.

As Ozai returned to pick up his robe from the floor, Sokka tried to roll aside, but the pain was too much, and he shrieked just from trying. Ozai watched him, pulling his long hair from the robe's collar, then moved toward the door as Sokka fell back to the floor uselessly, gasping and crying.

Ozai opened the door slightly and knocked on its frame, leaving it standing ajar, then went to the sofa to retrieve his wine.

Sokka didn't even care anymore how he would be found. He didn't attempt to move again. When the guards arrived, he was still lying on the rug, disjointed and weak, just a specimen of evidence to be discovered.

Ozai stood out on the balcony and left the guards to deal with Sokka. One of the men went to collect Sokka's shirt while the other went directly to Sokka. This first guard crouched down beside him, assuring that he was conscious.

The man offered Sokka his hand, and after a moment, Sokka took it. The guard, doing most of the work, hefted Sokka to his feet through so much pain Sokka couldn't see straight. The other guard rejoined them, carrying Sokka's clothes, and Sokka stood leaning against the first, trembling and clinging to the man's hands to stay upright.

"Come on, you can stand," the man said to him, though he didn't seem to believe his own words, because he didn't slacken his grip. Still, Sokka made the attempt, gradually transferring his weight to his own feet until he could hold the man's hands only for balance, not for support. The man seemed ready to catch him at any moment. The other guard handed Sokka his pants.

Sokka took the pants in hand but couldn't imagine what he would do with them. He stood for a moment, trying to muster some stamina, and when he finally let go and tried to bend, he nearly collapsed.

So the first guard took his hand again and held him by the arm as the other guard stooped and arranged the pant legs on the floor so that Sokka could step into them. A single trickle of blood was crawling slowly down Sokka's thigh, but soon the guard pulled Sokka's pants up and obscured the view. The man tied Sokka's drawstrings for him. No one tried to make him put on his shirt.

It was obvious Sokka couldn't walk, so the guards each slung one of Sokka's arms over their shoulders and carried him to the door. In the hall, another guard stood nearby, and the first guard whistled to her to get her attention. He told her to go send for the doctor to meet them at Sokka's cell, and without question she went.

The guards brought Sokka back into the basement, and as they were sliding open the gate of his cell, the doctor and his assistant arrived.

The men deposited Sokka crying onto his knees in the cell and then cleared out swiftly. The doctor and his guard stepped in behind them.

Sokka sunk to the floor on his side, sobbing out loud, in too much pain to stay upright, in too much trauma to communicate. The doctor, saying nothing, went to him immediately. Taking Sokka's submission as the necessary consent, he untied Sokka's drawstrings.

Sokka just lay there, crying without talking, and let the doctor do as he must. He removed Sokka's pants, and the guard placed a towel under Sokka's hips, and with Sokka's knees bent as if in medical stirrups, the doctor cleaned his wound with cold saline, the guard acting as surgical assistant.

After some time, the doctor pressed a patch of gauze to Sokka's anus and instructed the guard to get something from his satchel.

"It's not that bad," the doctor finally said to Sokka, narrating the end of the procedure. "This area of the body bleeds a lot at first, but it heals quickly, too. You'll be all right."

The woman handed the doctor what he had asked for, and the doctor took the gauze away for a moment, slipping a cooling suppository into the area of damage.

"This is medicine," he said. "Let it sit. Don't try to clean it away." He pressed the gauze back against Sokka's body. "And try not to disturb the bandage until morning."

The doctor cleared away the towel, wiping stray liquid from the floor and Sokka's legs, and Sokka let his knees drift back down, curling himself loosely into a fetal position, exhausted and emotionally drained. A brief burst of flame in the corner of the room did nothing even to startle him, and as the doctor re-packed his satchel, the guard laid a newly heated blanket over Sokka's naked body, an acknowledgment that it would be too much now to expect him to maneuver into a garment.

Sokka exhaled under the heat, grateful and heartbroken, and the guard and doctor helped lift him onto his bed mat so that he wouldn't have to lie on the cold stone floor.

"You can use the chamber pot if you have to," the doctor said in parting. "I'll have Min come back in a little while to see that you're all right." Sokka didn't acknowledge this, just closed his eyes, tired and swollen with tears. "The bleeding will stop," the doctor assured him. "You'll be all right."

The doctor and guard exited the cell, but before they had gone around the corner of the hallway, Sokka raised a hand to stop them, one thing to say.

The doctor paused, waiting for Sokka to speak. Sokka struggled a moment, face furrowed and throat tight.

"I can't do that again," he croaked at last.

The doctor pursed his lips, exhaling through his nose. It was late, surely into the small hours of the morning, and it was clear he was unhappy with how Sokka had been torn up. Slowly he nodded.

"I'll see what I can do about tomorrow," he said. It was the best comfort he could offer.

After that, he and the guard went, and Sokka was left alone to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Sokka woke in the morning, he was in deep, soaking pain. When he turned under his blanket, a young male guard was sitting in the hallway on a stool, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, looking bored. He noticed Sokka and unfolded his arms but didn't change his demeanor.

"How you doing?" he asked.

Sokka pulled his blanket up around his shoulders, feeling small and embarrassed.

"Fine," he responded quietly.

The guard rose, stretching and yawning, then straightened out his armor. He stepped up to the bars and pointed into Sokka's cell.

"There's a pair of clothes there for you," he said. "I'll go tell the doctor you're up, and someone will probably bring you breakfast."

He left.

Sokka reluctantly got to his hands and knees, stinging, and pulled the gauze away from between his legs. It was bloody but dry and no longer served a purpose. He discarded it in the chamber pot.

He noticed beside his water basin that the doctor had left him another vial of medicine, and he downed this before pulling on the clothes the guard had indicated to him.

In a while, the doctor returned with his guard.

"I spoke with the Fire Lord," he said, "and he seemed to understand it would be wisest to give you a day's rest."

It wasn't a definite answer, but Sokka didn't press it. He doubted the doctor really had any idea what Ozai would do tonight. The Fire Lord didn't have to answer to his servants.

In any case, Sokka didn't want to think about it. He lay face down on his bed mat, arms at his sides, silent.

The guard set his new breakfast tray in the corner.

"Eat," the doctor said. "You may not want to, but you need to. You can't heal if you don't eat."

Sokka said nothing, and the doctor seemed to see no point arguing now. He set two new vials of medicine on the tray.

"Midday and evening. That's all for one day," he said. "Wait at least a few hours between each dose. And drink your water."

When the doctor concluded his well-meaning check-up, he and his guard departed, and Sokka was left to discover the remarkable truth of how much of one's day one could spend doing literally nothing but lying in bed staring at the wall.

He was so depressed. No amount of time felt like enough either to regain his energy or to calm down.

But by nighttime, he was sitting up again and outright sick with anxiety. He was certain had there been anything in his body he wouldn't have been able to keep it in. Twice in as many days he'd been violently raped, and the looming threat of a third time was making it hard to breathe.

The doctor had warned Ozai off, but Sokka was struggling to find comfort in that. After all, it had been obvious the night before that Sokka was in no shape to endure a second go. For that matter, it had been pretty obvious from the beginning that beating and raping another human being was a monstrous thing no one should ever do. But that had saved him from nothing. Ozai would do what Ozai wanted when the time came.

Sokka was shaking with that knowledge. He pressed himself against the wall with his hands over his face and cried, begging someone, anyone, to spare him tonight. His soul was crying out to whatever spirits would listen.

And in the middle of this, the hallway door opened and a pair of guards' footsteps came clinking toward his cell.

The moment he recognized the sound, the effect in his body was like being plunged underwater. His nervous system became washed in suffocating dread, his chest robbed of air, and the world around him seemed almost at once to become separate and dream-like, left hovering above the rippling surface.

He took his hands from his face, his eyes glistening and staring, and the guards brought him to his feet, his every impulse dead and drowned.

By the time they reached the private bath of last night, Sokka felt almost totally detached, like a spirit moving through the physical world without really being part of it. The guards presented him to Ozai and closed the door. Ozai was soaking in the hot pool.

"Still standing," he remarked.

Sokka stared.

Ozai rose from the pool and wrapped a towel around his waist. Sokka retreated, backing into a sofa and sitting. Ozai approached him, lifting an eyebrow and smiling mildly.

"Were you going somewhere?" he asked.

Ozai stopped over him and put his hand on the back of the sofa, looking down at Sokka fondly, as if he were petulant but amusing child.

"I'm glad to see you're not nearly as debilitated as the doctor made you out to be."

He stepped around behind Sokka and combed his hands through Sokka's hair, gathering and smoothing it idly, pulling it into a wolf tail and holding it there a moment.

Through the open screens at the far side of the room he could see the sky and hillside beyond. The moon was rising over the forest, waning.

Ozai let the wolf tail fall. Sokka's mind was struggling to catch up. He was becoming aware of Ozai's nearness. This was just snow falling on battlements, a sensation light as the air foreboding coming violence.

Ozai bent down behind him, putting his hands down over Sokka's chest and bringing their heads close together. He followed Sokka's line of sight.

"Water Tribe," he said. "The moon is important to you, eh?" They stayed in silence a moment, watching together the thick crescent hanging in the clouds.

"But you're no bender," Ozai said. "What meaning could it possibly have for you?"

Ozai returned to the front of the sofa, and Sokka blinked, feeling present now as he hadn't before, awake and aware. Ozai straddled Sokka's lap, his towel barely concealing him, and Sokka's heart hammered, sweat prickling his skin. Ozai took Sokka under the chin and looked down into his eyes, their faces very close together. It was a power display, an obedience exercise, as with a dog, Ozai doing what he liked and relishing the fact that Sokka couldn't move, wouldn't move.

Sokka's breath was shallow, his head dizzy, feeling his impending torture becoming more real, getting closer.

"You can't imagine what it feels like to have the bending power running through your blood," Ozai said, calling a flame into his palm and trailing it across Sokka's face, letting him feel the warmth and softness of it without the pain.

Ozai extinguished the flame and settled against Sokka's stomach, letting him feel his erection. Sokka took a breath, heat rising to his face, ready to cry. He didn't want to be raped again. Ozai put his hand on Sokka's cheek, as if admiring him, caressing Sokka's lower lip with his thumb.

"I'm not here to tear you apart," he said.

He rose and took the towel from his waist, placing one foot beside Sokka's thigh. Sokka did cry then, and Ozai put his hand on Sokka's head, drawing them together.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back in his cell, Sokka spat out a mouthful of water, unable to swallow. He was weak, head hanging over his water basin, his untouched food drying on his tray. He hadn't eaten in two days, but he felt like vomiting.

His head reverberated with confusion, distortion. His memories were beginning to seem like a nightmare, not a lived experience. He felt ripped from the universe, no longer himself, no longer a Water Tribesman, no longer human. The feeling was such a profound, vast trauma that it just emptied him out. He couldn't even turn the despair into hate and lash himself with it just to feel alive. It just sucked all the will to live right out of him.

He lay down on his bed mat, feeling thin. His wrist in front of his face looked narrower than it should. His cast felt leaden on his hand, too heavy to lift. Sleep was no longer rest but merely dissolving into oblivion.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When the doctor arrived in the morning, he scolded Sokka for not eating.

"You're pale," he said. "And sunken." He handed Sokka a glass of juice, and Sokka took it in hand but didn't drink. He could feel the faint tremor in his hands from lack of fuel, but even that couldn't motivate him.

"Don't make me force you," the doctor said.

If only to avoid a fight, Sokka lifted the cup to his mouth and let the juice come in contact with his lips. It was thick and sweet, pear. He licked his lips but couldn't quite stomach pulling in an actual sip. To hold anything inside his mouth seemed excruciating.

The doctor seemed frustrated, but he wasn't going to sit here and spoon feed him.

"Any new pain?" he asked.

Sokka would have laughed had he had the energy. Every day was new pain to him.

"No," he said.

The doctor nodded soberly. "Good." He gathered his things and before he departed addressed Sokka one more time.

"You will starve to death, you know," he said. "If you don't eat, you die. That's a simple fact of biology. Your stomach will start digesting itself, and then there's no recovering. And if your system is under stress—which yours clearly is—the damage only progresses more quickly. So _eat,_ " he said. "I don't know how to put it more strongly."

Sokka, unwilling but trying to cooperate, touched the juice to his lips again and licked away the sugar. Maybe if he did this all day long, he would have the glass empty by the time he saw Ozai again that night. Thinking so made him feel faint, and he set the juice aside on the floor.

The doctor sighed, but there was nothing more to be done, so he and his guard left Sokka alone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

That night in Ozai's chambers, Sokka swallowed engorged flesh, arched at fingers put inside him, cringed beneath sweat and heat, felt Ozai's hands on him like leeches. He flickered in and out of reality, dizzy, face wet, body not even his own.

He was an inhuman thing, an object to be invaded, not even really part of himself, not even really alive.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

By the next afternoon, the danger of starving had become real. Before, the doctor's warning had seemed dramatic. Today it felt disturbingly plausible.

Sokka dragged himself over to his tray, foggy and dizzy. He couldn't even hold his spoon properly, but he made what fist he could and forced himself to take a bite of pudding and keep his mouth shut.

He tried to swallow but only gagged. He sat with his jaw locked and waited. He spent a long moment, his heart drumming faster, mustering the courage to attempt to swallow again. But when he tried, his body just heaved, spitting the mouthful back onto the tray and doing its best to vomit.

Sokka heaved uncontrollably for a moment, but there was nothing but air inside him. He cried. He was so hungry but so sick; all he wanted was relief. He remembered the doctor's warning. Was it too late to recover?

He collapsed against the bars, cheeks wet, exhausted from the futile effort. He hooked his elbow over the cross bar at the bottom of the grate to stay upright and tried to breathe in fresh air, trying to still the churning in his bowels. He closed his eyes and didn't move for a long time.

When the guards eventually came for him that night, they found him huddled like a goblin creature against the bars, arm hanging out of his cell, shrinking and decaying. He hadn't moved. The guards stood over him for a moment, seeming hesitant to approach him.

One told him to get up, and Sokka tried to lift his head, but all he accomplished was hardly a half-nod of acknowledgement. Get up, they told him again, and for the first time he realized he simply couldn't. He didn't have the strength.

When one of the guards eventually stooped to heft him up, Sokka's very bones seemed to sigh, like a coat being pulled from the dust. He was hardly more than cloth on a skeleton, and he sagged against the man, drooping in his arms.

"Come on, walk," the man said.

Sokka didn't want to walk. He didn't want to endure this. And when he realized his condition would be no deterrent to their errand, he wept without sound or energy.

They forced him to shuffle down the hallway, slow and clumsy, but there was no way he could climb the stairs. He couldn't even lift his foot to the first step.

"Should we call someone?" one of the guards asked.

The other didn't seem to know what to do. Ozai, of course, had ordered Sokka's immediate retrieval, not sent the guards to take on an endless medical errand.

The other answered, "Just carry him. We'll let the Fire Lord decide."

So the guard picked Sokka up like an infant, cradled in his arms, and Sokka just let him, too weak to resist or protest. He loathed to his very marrow everything that was happening, but it was all outside his control.

Soon, they set him down on a sofa in Ozai's chambers, announced their delivery, and left. Sokka couldn't even properly hold himself upright, so he leaned with his cheek against the seat back, tears leaking into the fabric.

He was scared.

In a moment, Ozai was standing over him, but whatever he said, Sokka couldn't hear. Sokka was losing consciousness. He vaguely understood that Ozai was angry, but everything was quickly going blank. Moments passed, and the next thing he knew, he was being yanked up by the arm and thrown toward the bed.

Sokka fell onto the mattress, not strong enough to catch himself. The jolt reignited his mind, and a shrill terror started sounding at the back of his skill. He was going to be raped.

He sobbed, holding onto the bed cover. Part of him hoped the violence would kill him.

Ozai, cursing at him in anger, wrenched him over onto his back and held him down tightly by his arms, hurting him, using force without reason.

Ozai was raising his voice, shaking him, but Sokka couldn't process what he was saying. He just cried, unfocused and watery eyed, like a sponge being wrung out.

_Hurt me,_ he thought. _Just hurt me and get it over with._

Ozai hit him across the face with a powerful backhand, dropping Sokka cold to the bed with a bloodied lip. His peripheral vision swam. Ozai disrobed.

Sokka wasn't ready, didn't want to be here, but Ozai got up on the bed, kneeling over the top of him, grabbed him by the hair in both fists, and violently, violently rammed himself into Sokka's mouth.

Sokka gagged loudly, crying but unable to breathe, trapped between Ozai's legs. His tongue was pressed flat against the floor of his mouth, inducing him to vomit. But empty as he was, there was no telling the difference.

"Get it down your throat," Ozai snarled, pulling Sokka's hair like handholds and pushing past his gag reflex, dipping down the curve of his neck.

Sokka's gaped helplessly, his jaw practically unhinged, and Ozai pummeled his face as carelessly as one would shake out a rag. He came into Sokka's throat, spurting hot and choking, and pulled Sokka's face in close, cupping one large hand on the back of Sokka's head and crushing his nose against Ozai's pubic bone.

Sokka was sobbing vocally, throat rattling, clawing at Ozai's backside. Ozai yanked Sokka's head off him and quickly slammed the heel of his hand up under Sokka's chin, snapping Sokka's teeth together and making his tongue bleed. Ozai clamped a hand over Sokka's mouth to keep him from spitting the fluid out.

"Swallow it," he said panting, his grip on Sokka's face painful.

Sokka retched unproductively, his back arching, throat closing. He wasn't able to comply. His eyes and nose were running, his body heaving, gagging, choking. Ozai kept his grip relentlessly. Sokka tried again, trying to make his muscles function as they needed to, and finally he managed a partial swallow.

Ozai tossed Sokka's head back and hit him hard across the face again. Sokka fell aside, semen and blood smeared on his lips.

He lay there stunned, body convulsing minutely even as he was losing consciousness, and somewhere in the room Ozai threw a chair.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was dark and strange and cold sometime later when Sokka was lifted from the bed onto a stretcher. He tried screaming, not even knowing why exactly, but his voice was hardly a hoarse whisper. He was carried away through shadows and doorways that made his eyes roll and his head dizzy, and before he could understand what was happening, he passed out again.

A night of intravenous fluids mixed with a steady dose of sedatives brought Sokka back to stability. By evening, he was sitting up of his own free will and even feeding himself porridge. They had kept him in the infirmary and intended to keep him again overnight, but he was alive and functioning and by all accounts doing better.

Still, the doctor was unhappy with him.

"Look at these bruises," he said to Sokka, holding up Sokka's bicep to display the deep purple splotches there, Ozai's handprint. "You're never going to heal from anything if you do this to yourself," he said, jabbing him gently in the ribs. "You need to keep yourself healthy."

Sokka was sitting up in bed, a world away in a heavily drugged haze, with an entire pot of tea in front of him to drink—readily refilled if he ever managed to empty it.

"I've already brought you back from death's door once," the doctor scolded him. "Don't make me do it again."

The doctor's guard assistant was assigned to keep watch over Sokka through the night. As darkness and silence fell in the emptying chamber, Sokka dozed, and the woman unexpectedly said, "He can't keep you away from Ozai."

Sokka was roused by her voice. He blinked dumbly, not sure what was real.

"Just hang in there. The war is almost over." She sat motionless in the darkness, sitting in the moonlight at his bedside.

There was a long pause.

"What?" Sokka asked.

But she didn't say anything more, and soon Sokka succumbed again to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Restored to his cell the next day, Sokka sat at his water basin engrossed. For no reason but to occupy himself, he sat submerging his hand, moving slowly as possible, one hair at a time, watching the surface dip around his fingers and wrist where the water clung to his skin as he descended, watching it crest like a snow drift when he pulled his hand back out. It tickled.

He was fed now, hydrated, rested, and recovered, and he found this simple fascination calming.

He thought of Katara. How many times had he secretly tried to waterbend as a child? How much trauma could he have avoided had he been able to waterbend now?

_No benders_ , he recalled. Ozai's strict criteria. Any prestigious prisoner Ozai could have kept in a cell as a prize. But in order to do this, to keep a slave for his pleasure, one thing mattered above all else: _no benders_. No one who could fight back. A quality Sokka alone of all his companions wore like a badge of defiance.

The doctor kept him sedated. It was the only way he could rest enough to heal. So when the guards brought him to Ozai's room that night—his eye swollen and his lip split—he was still a little foggy and compliant, hazy enough to take the edge off.

A guard stood with him at the door as Ozai came briskly down the hall with an attendant, smiling and chatting. Ozai took Sokka cordially by the arm and led him into the room, the attendant following to help the Fire Lord out of his elegant formal robe.

"Returned from a long absence," he said to Sokka smiling, taking an ornament from his own hair as the attendant folded the robe over her arm. "Welcome back."

Ozai loosened the collar of his under-robe for comfort and handed the ornament to the woman, shooing her out the door.

He spoke loudly, beaming with enthusiasm and glee. "I've been to the theater," he said, going to a side table and pouring himself a cup of clear, hot alcohol. He turned to Sokka and sipped at it as the woman closed the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.

"The Ember Island Players," Ozai continued, "staging a production in my honor. What a treat."

He downed his alcohol in a final gulp and clacked the cup back on the table.

"Have you ever been to the theater?" he said, going to Sokka like a dear friend, putting his hand alongside Sokka's neck. He put his nose in Sokka's hair, breathing in. "Perhaps next time you can come."

He took Sokka's face in his hands, holding him close, absolutely glowing.

"You have no idea how much I missed you," he said.

Ozai kissed him, humming with ecstasy, and groped Sokka through his pants.

Drug-induced haze or no, Sokka resisted that physically and verbally. He stepped back with a jolt and pushed Ozai's hand away, making a startled noise.

Ozai chuckled and came for him again, as if Sokka were playing a game. Sokka turned, and Ozai caught him around the waist, pulling Sokka toward him like a flirting university student, bending with him and kissing the back of Sokka's neck.

Sokka couldn't run. He knew there was no escape. His head was throbbing already with the unbearable tension of absolute repulsion meeting absolute inevitability. He felt dizzy.

Ozai got him out of his shirt and somehow onto the bed, holding Sokka gently down by his throat and kissing his way down Sokka's stomach. Sokka's abdomen twitched, the ghosts of cooling saliva prickling his skin. His mind was spinning and his heart racing. Ozai put a hand down the front of Sokka's pants, and at that, like a stick snapping, Sokka detached, no longer there, no longer in this body.

Call it cooperating, call it participating, Sokka didn't know what he was doing. His body was outside of his control, acting on biomechanical impulses, responding to stimuli that had nothing to do with him.

Soon he and Ozai were both on the bed, Sokka on his elbows and knees, Ozai behind him, holding his hips.

What little feeling there was was slick and filling, remarkably pain-free—or of a kind of pain, anyway, that heightened sensation rather than overpowered it. Sokka's body was light and tingling.

He gasped, moaning animally into the sheets, his penis erect and body lost in sensation. Electricity poured into him on Ozai's momentum, and he twitched, spasming as a volcano built in his core.

Ozai pulled him backward, entwining their bodies deeper, and Sokka nearly screamed, overcome suddenly. He came, vocally and powerfully, and tumbled trembling to the sheets, pulsing and dripping. He panted, eyes watering, mouth hanging open.

Ozai pulled out of him and covered Sokka's backside in hot fluid. Sokka could barely feel anything, coming down from a staggering high, his face jumbled in his elbows and breathing ravenously.

Ozai pushed him over, smearing their semen into the bed cover, and lay on top of him to kiss him. Sokka grimaced, wanting to pull away, but he was pinned beneath Ozai's body and mouth and had no choice.

When at last he wanted to, Ozai came up for breath and dropped his head on Sokka's shoulder, body draped over him, his hand holding Sokka's bicep.

Cold, sobering aftermath settled around them.

Sokka was overwhelmed and confused. He pushed against Ozai's arm.

"Let me up," he said stiffly.

Ozai complied, letting Sokka slide out from under him and get out of bed. Sokka was shaking, unsteady on his feet, woozy and out of sorts. He found his pants at the foot of the bed, pelvis still pulsing occasionally, and pulled them on clumsily, already eager to escape. Every moment his vision was becoming less cloudy.

Ozai rolled over in bed and nestled into his pillows, as easygoing as if he'd been drugged, and looked at Sokka lazily.

"Call the guards if you're ready to leave," he said, his tone contented.

Sokka, trembling, pulled the cord before even finding his shirt and left as soon as he was able.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back alone in his cell, Sokka was jittery, on the brink of a breakdown. He was disturbed, horrified, wide-eyed, groping. He stumbled to the wall and cried out loud, just to release his voice.

This body he was in wasn't his own. What had happened? He had no answer, just the flat, inarticulate question.

He moaned, staring into the stone, rocking his forehead against the wall, humming meaninglessly, just vocalizing to ease this unbearable, reeling confusion.

He had just enough presence of mind to recognize that he was acting insane. At which thought he cried, because he didn't want to go insane.

He crouched on the floor and covered his face, not wanting to think. But whatever corner of his mind he tried to run to, he was hounded by an unrelenting and intensifying trauma.

He screamed and slammed his cast hand against a bar. The metal rang, and so did his arm, buckling him with pain and knocking him to the floor. His voice was high-pitched, the plaster was dented. He cradled his hand in his stomach and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.

Without his bidding or permission, a voice seemed to speak directly to him in his skull, saying, _More._

He was insane. He rolled over and grabbed the bars, pulling himself to his feet. He tried to suppress or ignore the voice, but like a polar dog barking to be let out, it wouldn't be denied.

_More,_ it said. _Fucking hurt yourself. Do something. Make it bleed._

There was a cross-bar toward the bottom of his cell, flat and cut at right angles, not round and cylindrical like the upright bars. It was a stabilizer bar keeping the others in place. Virtually vibrating with stress, frightened and hysterical, he kicked his shin against it, biting into the bone.

The sound he made was more euphoric than pained. He shuddered, losing his balance, and sank down, shoulders dragging against the bars. His leg was debilitated for a moment, but the sensation rushing through his blood was ecstatic. As soon as he recovered, he stood again, braced himself braced himself more strongly, and kicked again, connecting with a solid crack.

He did scream this time, half relieved, half sobbing, holding himself up by sheer strength of will. He kicked again, over and over, losing himself in the rhythm, hitting as hard as he could manage, until he had worn a raw hole into his shin and his voice down to gravel.

He could feel his skin beading with blood, but he kept kicking until he didn't even feel the pain anymore—just the contact, the collision, the satisfying _thump_.

Eventually he could no longer stand. A final swing of his leg pulled him off balance and sent him collapsing to the floor, arms spread to his sides and eyes unfocused. He felt like he was floating, high on pain and aching beautifully.

For once he drifted to sleep feeling calmed and relieved.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back at camp, he was with Suki in his tent. They were both in prisoner's clothes and lying together, curled toward each other, falling asleep.

He felt safe with her, and he was thinking about himself.

Before now, he had been a virgin. The most he'd ever shared with anyone were chaste kisses and this intimate closeness with Suki. No one had seen or touched his naked body; no one had witnessed him orgasm. No one had ever put themselves physically inside him.

He nestled against Suki, sharing space and breath and body heat. He loved her—something he was becoming more aware of every day. Being near her was an immense comfort. Talking with her was as easy as talking with himself. They had identities in common: non-benders, warriors, comrades, lovers.

They'd spent a lot of the war apart, but since bringing Suki back from the Boiling Rock, they'd only grown closer. War had a bonding effect. They were two young people, very fond of each other, mutually committed and happy. He felt it in his bones, a trust and kinship and love reserved only for members of his tribe: Suki had become his family.

Lying here, he could feel her breath against his hands, could smell her hair and her skin. He wanted to share that closeness with her—closer even than this. He wanted to give that secret extra part of himself to her.

But...something about him felt out of control, a private part of himself that seemed unsafe and scary. Not to Suki, but to him. While part of him was magnetized to her, the rest of him felt...repulsed. He _wanted_ Suki, but the thought of being vulnerable, exposed, being touched and seen... It made him cold and sick.

His heart started beating faster.

Suki, as if she could sense his thoughts, looked up at him.

His heart shot through with terror. Would she want him, even now? Could he share himself with her when his gut felt like a gaping blackness, consuming him from inside out? His hair stood on end, a chill running down him like a rough hand laid on the back of his neck.

"What?" she asked.

Alone in his cell, Sokka blinked awake in the dark.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

His leg was purple now with a bloody raw spot up and down his shin. It hurt, and no longer pleasantly. He had a pronounced limp. The ache was a constant, irritating reminder of a line he had crossed, an instability he hadn't controlled.

He didn't tell the doctor about it and hid the bloody splotch on his pant leg. And when the doctor and his assistant had gone, he spent the day quietly musing, hovering between a dark shame and the delicious idea that he could do it again if he wanted.

But that night, all such small ideas ceased to matter.

The guards closed him in Ozai's sitting room, and immediately Sokka sensed something was off. He was no longer sedated, nor hopelessly weak, and he felt hyper-aware of a lurking danger.

Candles lined the floor, creating a fiery, formal atmosphere that hadn't been present for his previous encounters with Ozai. Ozai was fully dressed, standing at the window, chest expanded.

Sokka was reminded of the first time he'd seen him in person, the might of his rank intimidating.

Sokka simmered in anticipation of trauma, but he didn't want to move. He was afraid of what this formality meant. He stood awkwardly inside the threshold, holding his wrist, defensive and watchful.

"The day of Sozin's Comet has come," said Ozai, looking out at the night sky.

Sokka's heart skipped a beat. Time had become like an endless monolith for him, always there, never changing. He had forgotten it still moved for other people, and he had neglected to count down the comet's approach.

But he couldn't see why this information should matter. After all, Aang wasn't coming...right? The plan had been to stay away so that there was no use Ozai could put the comet to. There was nothing left to conquer now that Ba Sing Se had fallen. Had something changed? Were the others in danger?

"When the comet last came, my grandfather, Fire Lord Sozin, used it to wipe out the Air Nomads," Ozai said evenly, not even looking at Sokka.

Sokka knew this; everyone knew this. Why was Ozai bringing it up now?

"I've issued a proclamation," Ozai said. "Tomorrow, I will no longer be Fire Lord. I will become Phoenix King, a sovereign above all others, a king who will never die, soaring with fire and devastation beneath my wings."

Sokka got goosebumps. Ozai's speech pattern had changed. He was using grandiose phrases like no normal person would talk. A prick of anxiety reminded him of how Azula had unraveled at the end.

"You're a strategist," Ozai said, finally looking at Sokka, as if inviting him into a fantasy. "You'll appreciate this, something for so long I haven't shared." He stepped down from the window and faced Sokka dead on, smiling. "I'm going to burn the Earth Kingdom and everyone in it to the ground."

Sokka at first didn't understand. Ozai couldn't be serious. The Earth Kingdom took up more than half the world.

But then, slowly, he realized Ozai was sincere. When Sozin's Comet came, every firebender on earth would become a lethal, unstoppable force—and Ozai didn't just have the majority of them at his command; unlike Sozin, he had them stationed in colonies and conquered cities all over the world.

At which point a hard shock settled into Sokka's brain.

"What," he said, not even a question.

If Ozai was serious, his plan was beyond catastrophic. It would spell not just the end of the war but the end of the largest race of people in existence. It was genocide and land destruction beyond comprehension, worse than anything Sozin could have even dreamed.

Sokka wanted to speak, but faced with something that enormous, he felt paralyzed.

Ozai smiled at Sokka's acknowledgment and added with personally tailored satisfaction: "And there will be no Avatar to stop me."

The gears of Sokka's head cranked slowly into motion. The tone of Ozai's voice was purposeful. And then, like a latch falling into place, it clicked.

_They're not coming_ , Sokka had said.

In a flash, Sokka recalled weeping on the floor of this very room, violently depressed, craving blood, and trying desperately to hurt Ozai with the one thing Ozai didn't know.

_They're not coming,_ Sokka had said, by which he'd meant, _Your victory is ruined._

But he remembered now how Ozai's eyes had flashed when he'd said it, a reaction that hadn't seemed to make sense at the time. But now Sokka realized that what Ozai had heard was Sokka telling him simply, _You win._

Ozai had been planning to destroy the Earth Kingdom all along, even then.

Sokka hadn't known; he'd thought saying the others were staying away would throw sand in Ozai's plans, stop up the machine, force him to reassess, regroup.

But all Sokka had done was let Ozai know his path to victory was clearer and straighter than he'd even imagined.

Sokka nearly screamed on the spot. Violent thoughts started pummeling his mind, blaming him, berating him.

_You're such a fucking idiot!_ he told himself. _You gave him the most sensitive, game-ending piece of information you had! You arrogant, reckless piece of trash! You're getting hundreds of thousands of people killed! Fix this!_

There was no coming back from this. If Ozai burned the Earth Kingdom, it didn't _matter_ if Aang mastered the Avatar state. There would be no world left to save.

"You...can't do that," Sokka stammered.

Ozai ignored him. "Already I can feel the comet nearing," he said, "the heat in my blood. A taste of things to come."

Ozai went to Sokka and reached for him, but Sokka swatted his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he said. His breath was shallow, panicking.

Ozai smiled at him indulgently, going to him anyway and enclosing Sokka in a hug, laying his chin on top of Sokka's head.

"My pet," he cooed, caressing a knuckle against Sokka's jaw. "Don't be testy with me tonight."

Sokka, manic with desperation, shivered in Ozai's touch. And he stumbled upon one thought that might give him leverage to stop him.

Ozai liked him. He found physical pleasure in him, yes, but more than that, he liked _keeping_ him. More than once Ozai had had Sokka nursed back to health rather than let him die. And even after a single day's absence, he'd been ecstatic to be reunited. Sokka saw now in a way he hadn't before that he held a certain value for Ozai which Ozai deeply relished—obsessed over, even. Maybe Sokka was nothing more than an object, a signifier of Ozai's status. But Ozai, of all people, _lived_ on status.

Sokka—so industrious. Leave it to him to find one more tool in his toolbox.

He pushed against Ozai's grip.

"I'll kill myself," he said.

Ozai paused then stood upright, looking down at him. Like a spark being stoked into a fire, Sokka lit up with urgency.

He maneuvered free of Ozai's arms and put a hand out to keep Ozai away from him.

"You want me, don't you?" he said, his voice as unsteady as his hand."If you kill even a single person from the Earth Kingdom, I will kill myself. And then what will you have to come home to?"

Ozai sneered at him but didn't move. He didn't even push Sokka's hand away. He looked as if he'd been backed into a corner.

"You think you can't be replaced?" he asked.

"With who?" Sokka challenged. "There is no one else."

Now Ozai did grab his hand, twisting Sokka's wrist. Sokka hissed in pain and dropped to one knee.

"Don't you have a sister?" Ozai asked, much louder now.

Heat rose to Sokka's face, emotion in his throat; he hated that threat. But he was stony, determined. Ozai was betraying himself by trying to scare Sokka out of it; Sokka had found the chink in his armor.

And at that Sokka realized they were in the manipulation game again—a game Sokka had warned himself never to play again. He'd taken on Azula and Ozai both and came out the clear loser both times. And to make matters worse, Ozai now felt like he was walking that same line between sanity and psychopathy that had nearly gotten Sokka killed in Azula's dungeon. To prod at Ozai's weakness now could have no predictable consequences. Playing this game was not safe.

But Sokka was going to do it anyway. For once in this whole nightmare of imprisonment, he felt he might _actually_ have the upper hand. He couldn't let it go unplayed.

"You can't use my sister," he said huskily, pulling against Ozai's grip to relieve some pressure from his wrist.

"Then stop talking like that," Ozai said sharply, twisting again and kneeling to Sokka's level.

Sokka winced but held steady.

"That's not what I mean," he said, looking Ozai in the eye, feeling his pulse in Sokka's wrist. "I mean you literally can't. Katara would kill you.

"Or you'd have to kill her. Because she wouldn't let you do this to her. You need it to be me."

He saw his face reflected in Ozai's eyes. He could feel himself trembling. This moment was crystallizing for him into the most critical point in the universe. He and Ozai were poised on the precipice, balanced only by the wrist between them, and one of them had to fall. Whose will was stronger? The whole world was at stake.

"I know what you want," Sokka said, his voice flat. "You want a slave to bring to your bed? Then you need two things: ease and prestige. That's why I work, because you'll only pick from Team Avatar itself. That's what makes you feel powerful." This last sentence he nearly growled. "But it's supposed to be a reward, right? Not a chore. So there's one thing you need above all else—no benders."

Ozai's knuckles were white now. Sokka's wrist was going numb.

"You need _me_ ," Sokka said. "Only me. Sokka. Because I'm the only non-bender on Team—"

He stopped cold.

Ozai took a breath, leaning toward him. Sokka, not processing, slipped and caught himself on the floor.

Things had changed. Team Avatar wasn't the team it was a year ago. Even since adding Toph, there were two more players on their roster now: Zuko...

...and Suki.

Sokka sat back, staring into nothing, feeling dizzy.

"What were you going to say?" Ozai demanded. Sokka didn't answer. Ozai released Sokka's wrist and rose upright on one knee.

"No," Sokka said, waving Ozai off absently. He needed to get out of here. He felt like he'd walked into a trap and had to find the way back out immediately. He stumbled to his feet.

He'd been wrong. He didn't have the trump card. He had charged at Ozai full speed only to walk off a cliff without realizing the ground wasn't under him anymore.

_Suki_ was a non-bender. Sokka and Suki—the only non-benders on Team Avatar. If Ozai needed a replacement, Suki would be it.

Sokka retreated to a wall as images assaulted his mind: Suki being touched, being burned, beaten, strangled, raped.

Like gunpowder combusting in his synapses, he realized she'd get pregnant.

"No," he said again, growing high-pitched. He put a hand against the wall. He was going to pass out.

Suddenly Ozai was touching him again, hands on Sokka's hips.

"You won't leave," Ozai said, holding him against the wall, speaking into Sokka's neck. "You wouldn't do that. You won't."

Sokka whimpered as Ozai moved his hands up his ribs, kissing his skin.

"Don't," Sokka said, shaking violently, begging. His entire world had been wrenched out from under him. He was scared of breaking.

"Stay with me," Ozai whispered into his ear. "The world will be mine. I'll rule over everything."

Sokka hiccupped like a child, tears in his eyes. Ozai put his knee between Sokka's legs, lifting him to his toes. His hand found Sokka's groin.

"I want you to be hard," Ozai said.

Sokka cried as Ozai's fist pulled him into the open. And with a warping sensation that skewed his vision, Sokka stopped being part of his body.

All threads of thought were gone. There was no more need for a solution because there was no longer a question. Sokka became aware of himself only as if he were a figure on a stage, a doll being played with, somewhat conscious of events but not really feeling them.

He stopped talking, stopped crying, every muscle in his body relaxing like coming detached from the bone. Unrelated to anything, the mass in Ozai's hand became stiff.

Ozai's robe came undone, and Sokka's clothes came off. Ozai lowered himself into a chair and held Sokka in his lap like a human sleeve, a body with no identity. Sokka's head lolled back over Ozai's shoulder, arms dangling, back curved to the shape of Ozai's chest. Ozai buried himself inside him and took Sokka's penis in hand, stimulating him the same.

In a while, empty as a husk, Sokka's body climaxed and spilled out over Ozai's hand.

Ozai's breath was audible now, his skin wet with sweat. He carried Sokka into the bedroom and laid him out on the mattress like a canvas.

Sokka wasn't truly conscious of what was happening, staring vacantly to the ceiling, limp and non-responsive. The physical world hardly registered. He didn't know where he was.

His limbs drifted in the sheets around him, moved where Ozai wanted them. After a moment, Ozai pulled him by the ankles down the length of the bed, and Sokka's hands were left behind somehow, lost overhead.

Ozai was out of sight somewhere down between Sokka's legs. But in a moment, he did something that seemed impossibly unnatural, and the pain of it made Sokka sharply gasp. He jerked, arcing his back and crying out at the feeling of invasion, of cold steel dipped in liquid. His voice cracked, and before the assault had finished, his mind whited out. Like being blinded by an aurora, he saw nothing, heard nothing, and disappeared from awareness altogether.

**Author's Note:**

> One more chapter is coming, so if you'd like to read more, please follow this story. Thank you!


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